Heroes for Ghosts
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Set after 1.16, Shadow. In an attempt to save a disillusioned hunter from himself, Dean and Sam are caught in a spell that sends them to 1870 Texas. Surviving the old west is hard enough. Escaping it could prove to be impossible. T for language, themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The boys belong not to me. More's the pity.

**Spoilers**: Set in Season 1 immediately after episode 1X16, _Shadow_

**Author note**: *waves sheepishly* I know it's been awhile. Real Life grabbed me by the ankles and pulled me into its undertow.

This story has been a long time coming. For a good majority of the stories I've written and posted my friend and beta, **Kelly**, read each chapter and helped me greatly curb my penchant for excessive use of apostrophes as well as check my choice of homophones. She never questioned motivation or plot structure; she simply made sure as best she could that typos were caught and grammar was as sound as two amateurs could make it. The only thing she asked in return for was that I write a western. *gulps*

**Author disclaimer: **This plot asks that you suspend reality a wee bit. I've worked to keep it as close to canon as I could, and I hope that you trust me to carry our heroes through this journey to a satisfying end. This is most definitely an area where "artistic license" lays claim. Though I've had several years' experience with horses, it's been awhile since I've been on one and I ask you equestrians out there to go easy on me. Gun-play, well, that's all been learned through movies, TV, reading, and checking in with my friend **Thru Terrys Eyes**. I've tried to keep it broad enough to not make blatant mistakes, but specific enough to paint a picture.

You be the judge.

I'm going to attempt something new: posting "shorter" chapters more frequently. We'll…see if it works. This is "short" as compared to my usual chapter length. *ahem* I'll be posting a chapter a week; the story is about three chapters shy of complete at this juncture, so I should be able to keep to that schedule without problem.

And just to let you know, I may be a hurt!Dean addict, but they _both_ get bloody in this story.

Kelly, this one is for you.

* * *

_Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? And cold comfort for change? Did you exchange a walk on part in the war, for a lead role in a cage?_

_~ Pink Floyd, "Wish You Were Here"_

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_Maera, Texas 2005_

The light hung low on a horizon that was miles away. Gray fingers of dawn drew tracks in the night and crawled across the flat land riddled with crab grass, tumbleweeds, and ancient, leaning posts that had once held yards of barbed wire marking territory and staking claims.

He could smell the tang of ozone on the reluctant wind as an early morning storm weighed its options; the coppery, metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue from where he'd kissed it off the face of the one person in this world he'd ever truly loved.

His son.

He'd never wanted his boy to have this life; he'd done everything he could to protect him from it. But in the end it hadn't mattered. The bad guys found him. The bad guys won.

The bad guys always win.

"Not always, Jake," came a gruff voice over his shoulder. He hadn't realized the last thought had been out loud. "If they did…we wouldn't be here."

"Max, I just put my boy in the ground." Jake rubbed his hand over three days growth of beard, brushing at a smear of the cakey red mud that coated his boots and the cuffs of his jeans and was now drying on his cheek. "They won this one."

It wasn't the first grave he'd dug, not by a long shot. Years of ranch life and war had come before he'd ever learned what it truly meant to be a hunter. And with each bend in his road, graves had been necessary. He knew it wouldn't be the last, either. But it had been the deepest hole he'd ever climbed into. And he couldn't fill it; not even when he ran out of dirt.

He'd not dug this grave in the earth; he'd dug it in his heart.

"C'mon, Jake," Max said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Time to go."

"I need another minute."

He felt Max nod; the brief squeeze by his friend's hand was meant to be reassuring, but Jake only felt the hard pinch of callused fingers.

"I'll just go tell Leo to get the truck ready."

"You do that," Jake replied, not taking his eyes from the low slope of earth that would soon sink and settle, eventually growing grass and weeds and erasing all sign that it had ever been disturbed.

That his boy lay beneath.

His body trembled briefly, a heart-sick pain rolling from the inside out. He had to stop this thing. He should have stopped it before this; before Sean had been the one to fall. He wouldn't make the same mistakes again.

"Eye for an eye," Jake whispered in a dull voice to the retreating night. "Fire with fire."

He didn't offer a hollow promise at the foot of his son's unmarked grave. He didn't even whisper a prayer. His pledge for vengeance was quieter; the unspoken vow all the more dangerous because he'd not said it aloud.

When he returned to Leo's faded, red pick-up truck, he regarded his two friends: men who had stood by him and stood up for him since before he'd been able to comprehend the weight of friendship. Working their father's lands had shifted to fighting for their country then spun into ridding the world of evil.

The thing they'd forgotten, though, was that in a world without evil, heroes die.

Under Jake's sharp-edged, scrutinizing gaze, Max reached up reflexively to stroke his thick, white handlebar mustache, his dark eyes peering from beneath the brim of a Stetson he was never without. Leo, a wiry build belying the strength Jake knew lay secreted in his friend's solid grip and powerful arms, simply looked back at him, round, rimless glasses covering mild blue eyes.

They'd grown up together, fought together, hunted all matter of prey together. And Jake was relying on those years of unity to support him in what he was about to do.

"I'm going after it," he proclaimed without preamble.

Max had been leaning against the truck bed; Leo sitting with one hip on the front bench seat. Both came to a startled attention at his words.

"Jake, what about what John Winchester said—"

"Screw John Winchester," Jake said, interrupting Leo's protest. "He's still got _his_ boys."

"He ain't with 'em," Max commented.

"Think that's my fault?"

"No." Max shook his head. "John's got his own mind about that."

Jake made his way to the truck bed and tossed the shovel in the back. It clattered against the metal ridges with a ringing finality that was almost Jake's undoing. He had to pause a moment to grip the cold edge of the tailgate and find his center.

"Jake," Leo tried. "I'm real sorry about Sean. You know that. I—_we_—loved that kid like he was our own."

Jake simply looked at him.

"But…you can't just…_go after it_."

"I can if I know where it is," Jake replied.

He watched Max and Leo exchange worried, cautious looks.

"_Nobody_ knows where it is," Max pointed out. "That's what John—"

"John Winchester ain't _God_," Jake snapped, his resistance hedging on a breaking point. "Might be a damn fine hunter, but that's pretty much all I can say about the man."

"It's _because_ he's a hunter that we should listen—" Leo began, but closed his mouth with a click when Jake exploded.

"I don't want to hear another _goddamn word_ about John fucking Winchester!"

Max folded his lips down and slouched against the truck bed, head bent low, eyes on the ground. Leo simply raised his hands in surrender and turned to face the sight of the sun chasing the reluctant storm, a wall of steel colored clouds turning the air heavy with anticipation.

"'Sides," Jake huffed, working to calm his voice. "I'm not talking about _now_. I know where it's been."

Jake could practically count the heartbeats in the silence that surrounded what was left of his make-shift family. As per usual, Leo caught on before Max.

"How?"

He wasn't asking how Jake knew; he was asking how he was going to do it. With Leo it wasn't about where they'd come from but where they were going. He had to have a plan, a mission, a purpose. Without it, he panicked. And because of that, Jake knew his friend would be two steps ahead. He was counting on it.

Jake shifted his eyes to the figure hogtied and wrapped in burlap on the back seat of the truck. The figure responsible for Sean being in the ground and not standing here beside him. The figure they would return to Hell.

Max and Leo slowly followed his gaze and Jake felt them catch their collective breath.

"You can't do that." Leo shook his head. His glasses caught a glint from the rising sun as he turned back to Jake.

"Watch me."

"It's _black magic_," Max pressed, moving closer to Leo as if to create a wall of humanity between Jake and the thing in the back of the truck. "It's everything we've been fighting against all these years. You're…you're talking about calling on the goddamn forces of darkness, here, man!"

"We all have a little darkness inside of us," Jake replied, watching with cold satisfaction as his friends' eyes went wide with realization. "You in or out? 'Cause I ain't waiting."

He simply looked at them, showing them he meant every word, declaring that this was one thing he was prepared to do with or without them.

Wordlessly, because that was the way it had always been with them, Max climbed into the truck bed and Leo behind the wheel, both showing with their actions what Jake had always known: they wouldn't leave him to fight this alone.

Jake circled the truck and climbed into the passenger side, shifting to look at the figure in the back.

"You better be worth the price we paid."

www

_Gary, IN 2005_

If he hadn't gone first, he would never have seen it. He was absolutely certain of that. Dean would have fixed him up, sent him out of the room with a snarky comment, and he'd have spent the day wallowing in self pity and nursing the sting of perceived betrayal.

They'd left Chicago in silence. Dean hadn't even turned on the radio—a sure sign that all is not right in his world. Sam had gingerly touched the cuts on his face, the blood turning first sticky and then stiff as it was allowed to dry. The night had gathered them close as their separate recollections of the previous hours kept them in their individual corners.

After driving for several hours, Dean had pulled off at the Sleep EZ Motel just south of Gary, IN; he'd gone into the motel office to secure a room, apparently counting on the weak light of early morning to shadow the effect of the wounds on his face. The quick patch job with the sleeve of a spare shirt in the car had done little to make him appear presentable.

Sam had simply waited in the car, letting the bitter echoes of abandonment poison each intake of breath until he fairly shook from it.

The moment they'd entered what was easily the smallest motel room Sam had ever seen, Dean had maneuvered him into the bathroom with a hand on his shoulder, shoving him down on top of the closed lid of the toilet and told him to sit still. Sam had silently obeyed, closing his eyes against the glare of reality, memories looping through his mind in abbreviated mental pictures of light and shadows, pain and smoke.

_Dad at the window, Dean crossing the room, strong arms around him…tears, longing, regret, a flash of light…blood, screams, pain, the sudden cool of the night…suffocating pressure, wasted words, Dad driving away….._

"Sit still." Dean's voice was gruff, brisk, tight.

"I am."

"If you were, I wouldn't have said anything," Dean shot back, applying more pressure than necessary as he cleaned the cuts on Sam's cheek.

Grunting in reply, Sam opened his eyes to fire back a strained retort when he saw the blood. It matted Dean's shirt against his brother's side in a wide swath from armpit to waistband, tucked around so that it was effectively hidden behind his jacket. If Sam hadn't been seated, his face level with Dean's chest, he wouldn't have noticed.

And Dean would have just gone on hiding it.

"Dean—"

The sting of antiseptic made him flinch away with a hiss and Dean's touch immediately gentled. Sam watched his brother's careful movements as he reached over to his left and rinsed some of the blood from the towel he'd been using to clean Sam's face.

Sam wanted to know what Dean saw when he closed his eyes. If he saw Dad driving away.

Their first aid kit was spread out on the narrow counter next to the sink. The water was running hot, steam rising from the steady stream and fogging the small mirror mounted on the wall. Dean turned off the water and then held a blood-smeared white towel against Sam's cheek, the heat from the water stinging the raw skin inside the cuts. Several cotton balls saturated with antiseptic lay on the edge of the counter next to their make-shift suture set.

"Almost done," Dean said. "Hang onto something; this might…sting…a little."

Instinctively, Sam closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the seat. He felt liquid fire run in quick rivers down his cheek and he gritted his teeth, a groan escaping despite his best efforts. That last douse of antiseptic nearly sent him over the edge, but almost immediately he felt the burn lessen and the warm towel return to soothe his damaged skin.

"Don't think you need stitches. Few butterflies'll do."

Sam swallowed at the controlled calm in his brother's tone. His _it's okay, I've got you_ tone. He opened his eyes, blinking away the sweat that had gathered his lashes together as he'd stiffened against the onslaught of healing agents. His eyes tracked immediately to the blood on Dean's side, trying to remember how he'd missed such a wound in the confusion of the fight with the Daeva.

"_Shut your eyes! These things are shadow demons, so let's light 'em up!"_

He remembered Dad screaming, pinned to the cabinets. He remembered someone shoving him aside, a cry.

_Dean's_ cry.

Sam closed his eyes once more and recalled the moment just before the light from the flare illuminated their small world: Dean, on his back, curling over to his side, face fisted in pain.

"When were you going to tell me?" Sam asked, eyes still closed, holding himself still as Dean's blunt, rough-skinned fingers taped the bandages carefully in place.

"About the butterflies?" Dean's confusion was plain in his tone. "Kinda had to wait until I cleaned all the blood off, Sammy."

"About your side," Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his brother's face as Dean straightened slowly.

"I'll get it in a sec," Dean muttered through stiff lips, his eyes darting to the side, unwilling—or unable—to meet Sam's accusatory gaze.

"How come you didn't say anything?" Sam pressed, a brittle edge of control crumbling at the ends of his words. He'd been too still, too pliant. He felt a familiar burn of anger twisting up inside of him, hungry to escape. He wanted to pace, to move, to hit something—_anything_—hard.

"It's fine," Dean replied gruffly.

Feeling mean, Sam reached out and pressed two fingers against Dean's ribs. He didn't have to press hard. Dean flinched away, stumbling back a step.

"The hell?"

"Think we need a new definition of the word _fine_," Sam snapped.

Dean stared hard at him for what felt like an eternity of heartbeats. His green eyes had gone flinty and shadowed and Sam knew he was being measured, that Dean was taking stock of both him and the situation. In his youth he'd alternately cowered and rebelled against that look. Since returning to the fray from his brief respite at Stanford, he'd learned to use it to his advantage.

But this time, it simply pissed him off.

"You think you're tougher than me, that it?"

"Grow up, Sam."

"Go to hell, Dean."

Throwing the towel directly at Sam's face with enough force its impact stung, Dean turned from the small bathroom and stomped into the equally small bedroom. Sam pulled the towel away and watched him walk into the other room, a familiar roll of shoulders that had always meant two things to Sam: _home_ and _safety_. And because he was hurt—and the one he wanted to lash out at was gone—Sam started to poke at that safety net, widening any holes he could find.

Dean paused as he reached the break between two of the smallest beds Sam had ever seen. Sam watched as Dean's shoulders sagged, his head dropping low. The defeat he saw in that stance—the appearance of a weight that Sam knew his brother wouldn't have to carry alone if _someone else _picked up the pieces once in awhile—blasted away any remaining control and Sam shoved to his feet, dropping the bloody towel on the floor.

"He wouldn't have left if he knew you were hurt that bad!" Sam blurted out as he crossed the room behind his brother.

Dean half turned to face him, his expression one of disbelief. "What the hell are you—"

Sam continued to cross the room, not pausing in his stride, and reached out to grip Dean's shoulder, pulling his brother around roughly to face him.

"We _had him_, Dean! All this time…all these hunts…everything we've…survived—it's all been so we could find Dad. We _had him_! And _you_ let him leave!"

Sam registered the shift in his brother's face, the quicksilver flash of heated emotion sluicing away to a practiced emptiness.

"Let go of me, Sam."

Dean's calm voice rode in contrast to Sam's roar, but it was just as effective at grabbing attention. Sam was two heartbeats from challenging his brother to _make him_ when he saw the muscle along Dean's jaw bounce. Dean _wanted_ the challenge, Sam realized. He'd missed the signs while cresting on his own wave of hurt feelings, but Dean was spoiling for a fight just as badly as Sam was.

He forced his fingers to open, releasing his grip on Dean's shoulder, and took a step back, but he wasn't through tugging open this particular hole. "He _wanted_ to stay."

"Like hell," Dean said, shaking his head. "He knew he had to go."

"He was gonna stay for us, Dean," Sam protested. "You heard him! He saw how beat up—"

"Drop it, Sam," Dean ordered, and Sam watched as his right hand snaked up to press against the wound on his side as if on an invisible string. "Whoever Meg was working for? Wanted Dad. Not us, _Dad_. It—they—used us to get to him."

"So what?" Sam replied petulantly.

It didn't matter that what Dean said made logical sense. It didn't matter that Dad said the fight was just beginning, that Sam would have a part to play. It didn't matter that they were all safer apart.

What mattered was that he'd had just enough time to realize that he _wanted_ his family together before it was ripped apart again so quickly it wrenched something inside of him. He ached deeper than the Daeva cuts, deeper than bruised muscles. He ached somewhere under his heart and he couldn't figure out how to breathe around that pain.

"Jesus, Sam." Dean rolled his eyes. He started to move past Sam. "How about thinking of someone other than yourself for a change?"

Dean's shoulder bumped Sam's arm as he made his way back to the bathroom; Sam snarled, reaching out and grabbing his brother.

"You mean like _you_ did?" Sam yelled. "Who were _you_ thinking about when you came and got me from school?"

Dean whirled with Sam's words, twisting out of his brother's grip, his face inches from Sam's as he shouted in return, "I am fuckin' _sick _of hearing about Stanford and your perfect life! You want to go back to that so bad, nobody's stopping you!"

"Not what you said yesterday!"

"Yeah? Well, things change!"

"If I wasn't here, you'd have made him stay!"

"If you weren't here, he wouldn't have come in the first place!"

Dean's bellowed confession halted them both for a moment and Sam watched something he couldn't name, but instinctually recognized, shift through his brother's eyes.

They stood toe-to-toe, chests heaving from pent up emotions and aggression, eyes hot with anger. Dean pressed his lips tightly closed as if willing the rest of his thoughts to _stay back, keep quiet_.

A muscle twitched in Dean's cheek and Sam knew then: the ache he now felt had been his brother's constant companion for years. He saw it in Dean's eyes. And it confused the hell out of him.

Then, as if someone had pulled a release valve, all fire, all anger, all pain disappeared from Dean's face and he lifted his chin slightly. "Forget it," he drawled. "It's not worth it. Not like it's ever gonna happen."

He half turned, ready to walk away and Sam suddenly, inexplicably saw red. The part of his brain that feasted on logic, that saw a clear path through the maze of emotion that often times ruled his world, knew that he wasn't mad at Dean. He wasn't even really mad at John. He was mad that any of this was real, that they were once again rendered apart because of circumstances beyond their control.

He couldn't fight the circumstances, but he could lash out at his brother.

"What's never gonna happen, Dean? Dad staying or me leaving?"

Dean looked at Sam out of the corner of his eyes, and the flash of vulnerability Sam saw there should have stayed his hand but instead it only fueled his fire. "'Cause I promise you that when this fight's over, I'm outta here."

Dean looked away, shaking his head once. "You go ahead and tell yourself that, Sam." He dropped his eyes to his hands; he was holding his right in his left, turning the silver ring around his finger. "But it's never going to be over."

Grumbling a low, "Yes, it will," Sam pushed Dean away from him, intending to only get space between them, suffocating on the truth that was twisting into something dark.

Whether his force was too much or Dean's balance was off, Sam never had time to really figure out, because Dean stumbled, a gasp escaping as the motion jolted his wounded side. Triggered by the pain or looking for an excuse, Dean used that push to launch at his brother.

He gripped the front of Sam's shirt and with a growl, turned him, slamming him with impressive force against the wall. Sam felt the impact rock through his body, reminding him that aside from the slashes on his face, there were numerous bruises and muscle tears that the Daeva had treated him to.

"What—"

"You _can't_ leave it, Sam," Dean said, his words slipping out through clenched teeth and brushing against Sam's face like acid. "You can walk away from me, you can forget about Dad, you can put away your guns, but _this_ is your life. This will _always _be your life!"

Sam's eyes burned, his mouth curled into a snarl, his hands fisted in Dean's jacket and with disregard for wounds or bruises or pain, he shoved back, a cry of denial building in his gut and climbing his throat to wash over his brother as he forced him away. He shoved hard enough that Dean's legs hit the side of a bed and he tumbled backwards across it with a grunt of pain audible even over Sam's rage.

"You just want to believe that, Dean!" Sam took a step forward, heat licking his cheeks as he let the words build and tumble free, riding on a confused tangle of perceived duplicity that stemmed from the one person they were supposed to be able to trust: their father. "You just _want_ this to be my life because _you_ don't know what else to do!" Sam paused a moment to pull in a breath, looking at his brother with eyes blind to the understanding on Dean's face. "Well, I do! I _know_ what else is out there! I _had it_, man!"

He turned away from Dean, shoving his fingers into his hair and curling them into fists against his temples. _God_ he hurt. It was pervasive. It shimmered through him. He wanted to throw up to relieve the pressure, but he knew in the back of his mind it wouldn't do any good. Because this pain wasn't from a sickness or a wound.

"I had _everything_…for like this one perfect moment I had everything and then she died and I…I lost it…and Dad disappeared…and you…."

Sam dropped his hands, unconsciously assuming a stance that echoed Dean's earlier defeated posture. His voice slipped to a whisper, one he couldn't be sure Dean even heard. But it didn't matter now. It wasn't about getting Dean to understand as much as it was about getting the ache to just _stop_.

"All I had left was finding Dad. Finding him and getting this…thing that killed Mom. Killed…killed Jess."

He felt the tears pushing against the words in an effort to escape first. "And then Dad was here…and for like _two seconds _everything was…was okay again. I really felt like it could be okay."

He sniffed and surrendered to the emotion that had been pursuing him since Chicago. Ignoring the shame he too often felt, he let the tears come, feeling their trail wet his cheeks, skipping across the fresh wounds, and tucking into the corners of his mouth. "And then he left. You told him…you told him to leave."

Silence pulsed between them. He could hear his harsh, sorrow-filled breaths. He tried to steady them, but too much had built up inside of him; his heart was a rebellion of emotion.

"You didn't have everything."

The words were so quiet Sam felt his body still in reaction just to hear more.

"You didn't have us."

Sam half-turned, looking at his brother laying across the foot of the bed where Sam had pushed him, his head back, his eyes closed, one hand resting on the now-growing red stain on his side.

"And I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean continued, his voice pulling Sam around like an audible hook. "I am…I am so sorry." Sam sniffed, swiping the back of his hand across his unmarked cheek and drying his tears. Dean's chin shook once and then steadied. "Fuck, man…," he almost sighed. "Don't you think _I_ wanted him to stay? That's all I've been after—for us to be a…," Dean swallowed, seemingly forcing the words free, "to be a family again."

Sam took a step closer to the bed. Dean still hadn't opened his eyes.

"But when it comes to you guys—to you and Dad—it's not about that." He licked his lips. "It's about…I don't know. Keeping you guys safe, I guess. And if he'd been with us…they'da just kept coming until either we were dead…or he was."

"You think he's safe out there alone?" Sam asked, hearing the youth in his voice, the hope, the need for Dean to make it better.

"He's safer on his own than he is with us." Dean blinked open heavy eyes, looking up at the ceiling, not at Sam.

"You _really_ believe that?"

Dean rolled his head to the side, meeting Sam's gaze. "No." He closed his eyes, then straightened his neck. "But _he_ does. And that's what matters, I guess."

Sam wanted to sit down. He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to sleep for a month.

"If you really want to go…y'know, when this is all over," Dean said suddenly, "I won't stop you."

And with those words, with that permission to be free of this one day, Sam felt the ache begin to ease. In truth, he had no idea if going back to Stanford was really what he wanted or not; he was just hurting, body and soul, and the idea that this life of death was really all he had to hope for was enough to defeat him in this moment. He wanted something else, something not tied to blood and death.

Something that didn't give him nightmares.

Watching his brother, though, he allowed himself a small, quiet confession: he didn't want to leave his family behind again in order to find that peace. Dean had been right. He hadn't had everything.

"I mean, I won't throw a party or anything," Dean continued.

"No party, huh?" Sam asked, quietly appreciative of Dean's method for putting them back on even ground.

Dean looked at him once more. "I kinda like having you around to watch my back."

"Save your ass, you mean," Sam corrected good-naturedly.

Dean folded his lips in concession, not moving from his sprawl across the bed. "Well, it's a nice ass. Deserves saving."

"Whatever, Jerk."

"Hey, Sammy?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at the shift in tone. "Yeah?"

"Wait until it's _really_ over before you leave, okay?"

Sam looked down, tightening his jaw. "Okay."

They stayed quiet for a moment, Sam's quiet promise weaving an invisible bond in the abbreviated space between them. Finally, when Sam couldn't take the silence anymore, he looked up. "You need some help?"

The fact that Dean had stayed where he fell, that he hadn't been up, pacing the tiny room like a tiger on steroids while Sam blew angst all over them shifted his worry up a notch. Aside from a blood stain and a fragmented memory of Dean falling under Daeva claws, Sam had no idea how badly his brother was hurt.

"No, I got—" Dean tried to roll to his side, then groaned, falling back. "On second thought…."

Sam moved closer, gripping Dean's wrist and pulling gently until Dean was sitting up on the edge of the bed. Huffing out a breath, Dean listed to his right, away from the cuts.

"How bad?" Sam asked, concern tingeing his question.

"I'll live," Dean grunted. Without waiting for help, he pushed to his feet, and turned toward Sam. "Let's just…"

Sam felt his stomach drop as the color drained completely from Dean's face, his eyes falling closed. He instinctively reached out as Dean's knees buckled and caught him in an awkward embrace, carrying both of them to the floor.

In a flash, their actions caught up with him and he recalled Dean stepping across the room to hug John, watching as John embraced Sam, blocking the strike of the Daeva as Sam retrieved the flare, supporting John as they all stumbled to the car, driving through the seemingly endless night cloaked in quiet, hauling their bags and Sam from the car, forcing Sam to sit still so that he could clean his wounds first.

"You stupid…," Sam whispered, rolling Dean down his arm to get a better grip, noting the sickly, pale pallor of his brother's face. "You shoulda _said something_, Dean," Sam accused, pulling the jacket away from Dean's side, then carefully peeling up the sodden T-shirt.

Four claw marks to match the ones on Dean's forehead and Sam's cheek scored Dean's ribs, the lowest one digging deep into the flesh just beneath the curve of bone. The gashes were longer, the skin parting like lips around the opening.

And after their recent actions, blood now spilled freely.

"Dammit," Sam swore, getting his knees under him and boosting Dean up so that his back was against Sam's front. Dean groaned with the motion, but Sam ignored it. Pushing to his feet, he pulled Dean with him, and then dragged him onto the bed. "_God_dammit," he cursed again as the blood from Dean's wound smeared along the bedspread with the movement.

"What'd you do that for, huh?" Sam asked his unconscious brother, worry and a fair amount of fear jacking up his blood pressure and increasing the speed of his breathing. "You don't just hide something like this from me, man."

Leaving Dean sprawled and still on the bed, Sam hurried to the bathroom and gathered up the first aid kit Dean had set out. Holding the package of needles, sutures, bandages, scissors, tweezers and cotton balls against his chest, he saw that there were two bottles of antiseptic. He picked up the heaviest one and then returned to the bed and set them next to Dean's wounded side.

A quick glance confirmed that Dean hadn't moved. He went back to the bathroom and gathered several towels, wetting one with hot water. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. Now clean and bandaged, the slashes in his face were little more than scratches, the third one down the longest.

The dark circles beneath his hazel eyes seemed to echo his earlier desire to lie down and just rest; he closed his eyes for a moment, jerking back in surprise when the hot water splashed from the towel onto his hand. Turning off the faucet, he carefully squeezed the excess water from the towel and returned to his brother.

Rolling Dean carefully to his right, Sam eased his arm out of his jacket, moving around the bed to repeat the motion on the other side. Taking a breath, he pulled out the scissors from their kit and cut away Dean's ruined T-shirt. He rubbed his forehead wearily as he examined the cuts in the yellowish light of the motel floor lamp, and then lifted the hot towel, gingerly touching it against the abused flesh of Dean's side.

The heat from the towel caused Dean to instinctively jerk away, but he didn't wake. Sam carefully cleaned as much blood from around the wounds as he could, returning to the bathroom twice more to rinse and re-wet the towel. As he worked, his anger evaporated leaving only a heavy sadness in its wake, the taste of regret coating the back of his tongue.

The pale light of morning slipped through the crack in the heavy curtain, the beam playing with dust motes and cutting a slash across Sam's hands and Dean's bare belly. Sam had to move the corner lamp closer to make sure he got most of the blood cleaned away from the wound. When he was sure it was clear, he wet a handful of cotton balls with antiseptic and pressed them carefully against the top cut.

Dean nearly came off the bed.

"Jesus _Christ_!" The words were ragged, breathy, panicked.

"Hey, easy." Sam caught Dean's instinctive flight, holding his brother down with gentle hands. "You'll start them bleeding again!"

Dean's wide eyes flew around the room, disorientation evident. "What the hell—"

"Daeva, remember? Cut your side? You fainted on me, man."

That caught his attention. Dean shot his eyes directly to Sam. "No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did," Sam nodded, eyebrows up, and continued to dab at the open wounds. "You put your hand to your forehead and sank delicately to the ground."

"Bullshit," Dean groused, trying to get a glimpse at what Sam was doing. "Ah! Be careful, dude!"

"Dean, you've been bleeding off and on all night, man. You got some serious cuts here."

"Not serious," Dean retorted, dropping his head back and stiffening under Sam's touch.

"Serious enough," Sam grumbled. "I can't believe you made me go first."

Dean just shrugged as if to say _it didn't occur to me to do anything differently_. "Stitches?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam replied. "A lot of them."

"I hate stitches."

"I know."

They were quiet a moment while Sam finished cleaning the deepest of the cuts. As he prepared the sterilized needle, he looked up at Dean's face, saw the lines of tension framing his eyes and snaking down his jaw.

"You want a shot of something?"

"What do we have?"

Sam stood and went to Dean's duffel bag. A silver flask was tucked into the end. "Whatever's in this."

Dean reached out his hand, unscrewed the cap, and took a long pull. He held it wordlessly out to Sam, who waved it off.

"I think you want me clear-headed for this, Dean."

"You want to burn the needle first?" Dean asked.

"Already done. Quit stalling, you big baby," Sam retorted. "Ready?"

Dean took another swig from the flask, then pressed his lips together and nodded. To his credit, the only sound he made was when Sam got the thread knotted and tugged a bit on the wound. By the time Sam was finished with the two deepest cuts, Dean had eighteen stitches in his side. His body shook in reaction both to the intrusion of the needle and the effort at holding still for so long. Sweat ran in dark rivulets through his close-cropped hair and beaded across his upper lip.

"I think the top two are okay with bandages."

"There is a God," Dean panted. He handed the flask back to Sam with a shaking hand. "Gonna…just pass out—in a _manly _way—for a minute."

A rueful grin tugging up the corner of his mouth, Sam nodded. He looked at the cuts across Dean's forehead, but decided they could wait. Dean needed rest, and the cuts didn't look deep. He started to clean up the supplies; as he was about to head to the bathroom, he heard his name.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

Dean spoke with his eyes closed, a slur born of alcohol, exhaustion, and latent pain giving his words more meaning.

"You w're right."

"About what?"

Dean licked his lips, turning his head away. "I wasn't thinking 'bout you when I gotcha 't Stanford."

Sam stood still, listening.

"Jus din't wanna be 'lone," Dean whispered, and with those words, Sam watched him give in to sleep, his body sighing as it relaxed into the bed.

Swallowing past the tight fist in his throat, Sam turned slowly back to the bathroom, setting the first aid supplies on the counter, and then regarded himself in the mirror. He saw his father in his own face, the cut of his cheekbones, the shape of his mouth. He saw his father in the edge he detected in his expression.

He wanted to turn away, unable for one frightening moment to see himself.

Closing his eyes, Sam leaned his forehead against the mirror. He'd spent so much time hating his father, running from the similarities he couldn't help but see. But all he wanted now was to return to that moment in the Chicago motel room before the Daeva attacked. The moment he saw nothing but relief and love in his father's eyes. The moment he felt forgiveness ease the tightness in his chest.

_Just didn't want to be alone…_

"Me neither," Sam whispered to the mirror.

www

_Outside Maera, TX 2005_

It always managed to surprise him, the amount of blood in a human body.

Even a body that _used to be_ human could dispense an impressive arterial spray. He could smell it, feel it, practically taste it in the air, on his skin, seeping into his soul. This one he'd done on his own; he'd left the other two behind, starting the ritual on his own, knowing that exsanguination was the only guarantee that the essence would be captured.

And usable.

He disposed of the body, not bothering to clean himself up before he returned to find Leo and Max. They'd built a campfire in the center of the Devil's Trap they'd burned into the earth the previous night for the purpose of torturing the ritual out of their captive before exorcising it. He could still smell the remnants of burned fuel and flesh from where they'd gotten rid of the host body the night before, burying the ashes with rock salt.

Jake stopped just outside of the protective symbol looking at his friends. Max poked a stick into the glowing coals absentmindedly; Leo ran his Bowie across a whetstone with practiced rhythm. Both looked up when they heard him approach and drew back with twin expressions of horror at the sight of him.

"It's done," Jake informed them.

Max was the first to mask his revulsion. He dropped his eyes to the line of the Devil's Trap just beyond the toes of Jake's boots. His meaning was clear: _come to our side, come back to us_. Jake stepped over the barrier and dropped the Mason jar on the padding of his bedroll, the contents sloshing drunkenly within. He'd step inside the protective circle, but he knew he'd never really come back.

"You really did it." Leo's words were a simple confirmation, his eyes on the jar and the small piece of gray matter floating within.

Jake didn't reply. He was through convincing them of his intent. They were in it now; he had only to wait until they accepted that fact. Each one of them had learned in over nearly fifty years in this world that a person could be conditioned to accept anything as normal.

Even this.

"Now what?" Max asked, his eyes having returned to their stare-down with the dying fire. Jake recognized that look. It was the same expression that had made itself home on Max's face the last eight months they spent surviving in the jungle when they were twenty years old. It was resignation blended with disbelief and cut by heartache.

And this time he was responsible for it.

Dragging a hand down the length of his face and scratching at the whiskers that had grown slightly thicker since Sean's death, Jake sighed. Max knew what was next. He was just asking the question to delay the inevitable.

"Now, we find a calf."

The ritual had been specific. They had to drain the blood of an immortal then remove the creature's suprachiasmatic nucleas, the tiny part of the hypothalamus located directly above the point in the human brain where the optic nerves from the two eyes cross. This part of the brain, he learned, contained the body's central biological clock.

A vampire—the only immortal any of them could think of—had been harder to trap than they'd anticipated, given that Max was convinced they were extinct and Leo was morally averse to procuring a vial of dead man's blood to sedate their catch. Jake had found the nest, tricked the youngest, smallest female away from the rest, and, using the vial Max retrieved in Leo's stead, tied the girl to a tree and sent the other two away.

It had taken her a long time to bleed out.

It had taken him even longer to stop heaving once he'd cut apart her brain.

"A calf." Leo repeated in a dull voice. "I can't fucking believe we're doing this."

The suprachaismatic nucleas was the key ingredient in the ritual. Everything else just helped to ensure their success. But they had to be gathered in a particular order, during specific times of the day. He didn't want to understand why. He didn't care. All he needed to do was follow the instructions.

"Believe it, brother," Max droned. "'Cause we're over the wall now."

He looked up at Jake with empty eyes. Jake nodded back at him, feeling confidence build inside him. This was going to work; he would sacrifice himself if necessary, but it _was going_ _to work_.

He just didn't anticipate how many failed attempts there would be before they achieved success.

www

_Gary, IN 2005_

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Sam.

His brother lay sprawled on his back on the opposite bed, mouth open as breath sawed in and out in a familiar, rhythmic snore pattern. His feet hung over the end of the small bed, kicked free of the blankets, and his left arm dangled in the open space between beds. His bed was so close that Dean stretched his hand out across the opening and pushed Sam's arm up to rest on his chest. Sam snorted softly, smacked his lips, and rolled to his side, his back to Dean.

It was refreshing to see Sam sleep, peaceful, dreamless. Too often Dean had woken up in time to bear witness to the lines of pain and panic that outlined Sam's boyish face, erasing youth and sketching a dismal future that Dean could only blame himself for.

The motel room was stuffy; his skin was covered in an uncomfortable, sticky layer of sweat under even the thin blanket and sheet from the bed. Gingerly, Dean rolled from his side to his back, feeling the motion pull the tender, sutured skin along his ribs. With an eyebrow raised in curiosity, he lifted the sheet and looked down the length of his body. Thankfully, he still had his jeans on; Sam had just done away with the bloody shirt.

Automatically, Dean reached up to rub at his gritty eyes, pulling up short as he realized the skin across his forehead felt almost…crunchy.

Groaning, Dean realized that the cuts on his face courtesy of the Daeva hadn't been bandaged last night. _Last night? This morning?_ He blinked, looking around the room. It was light outside; he could see that much from the sunlight slipping through the cracks in the heavy curtains. But it had been light outside the last time he'd been awake, too.

Chewing on a distinctly uncomfortable feeling of missing time, Dean pushed away from the bed, letting the rough, bleach-washed sheets slip from his bare shoulders and puddle at his waist. He felt hollow; a strangely weightless sensation floated through his head and for a moment he was sure if he lifted his hand mid-air it would hover there of its own accord. Nausea that always accompanied extended hours of not eating shook through him, and Dean tossed back the covers, standing slowly and biting back a groan.

He wanted coffee more than he wanted to take another breath.

He hated the shaky, unsettled feeling of weakness that followed him from the dark. Moving toward the bathroom, quick eyes catching sight of food wrappers in the small trashcan, six empty Pepsi cans lined up along the dresser, and a pile of dirty clothes on the floor next to Sam's duffel, he hazarded a guess that he'd been asleep at least twenty-four hours, if not more.

_So…blood loss. Not a good thing_.

He closed the bathroom door behind him. He winced when he caught his reflection in the mirror: he looked rough. Two days beard crawled across his cheeks and jaw, dried blood matted his eyebrows, and one eye looked bruised.

Taking a deep breath, Dean turned the water in the sink to as hot as he could stand it and splashed his face, cleaning the blood away. He patted it dry with a semi-clean towel he found on the floor, then looked at the first aid kit Sam had left on the counter.

"Almost out of holy water," he muttered, picking up the lighter of the two bottles of antiseptic.

For a brief moment he wondered if Sam had remembered to clean his side with the holy water before stitching it up, but then he recalled the burn that had jerked him roughly from the comfort of oblivion. He looked at his face. Now free from blood, he could clearly see the reddening of the edges of his cuts; they'd gone a little while without being properly cleansed, so this was going to sting.

Folding over the towel he'd used to dry his face, he covered his eyes, and then poured the rest of the holy water down his forehead. It was like bathing in liquid fire. He actually _heard_ the snap and sizzle as the blessed liquid removed the Daeva poison.

"Son. Of. A. _Bitch_. That hurts," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Mother fu—"

"Dean?"

"In here," he called back immediately. The worry in Sam's voice had his stomach jumping in reaction.

"You okay?" Sam's voice was close now, just on the other side of the door.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just taking care of business, Sammy," he replied, turning off the water in the sink and carefully shucking his jeans. His body thrummed with a beat unique to old pain. His bones hurt; he knew this was going to be hanging around for awhile. He'd just have to learn to work around it until he healed. "Be out in a minute."

"You hungry?"

"Are you kidding?" Dean called back as he turned on the water in the shower stall. "Right now I could eat you and not feel bad about it."

"I'll go get us some break—er, lunch," Sam replied.

Stepping under the spray and feeling his mouth relax into a smile as his body soaked up the delicious sensation of the water, Dean shouted, "What time—hell, _day_ is it?"

"It's like one in the afternoon," Sam yelled through the door. "Saturday."

"What day did we get here?" Dean asked, frowning as he slicked up his body with the bar of soap Sam had left in the dish. He was careful to rotate his left side away from the direct spray of the water.

He heard the smile in Sam's voice. "Friday morning."

_That explains a lot_.

"Four cheeseburgers," Dean called back. "Fries—make that _two_ orders of fries."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam verbally waved him off. "Want a side of cholesterol and some hardened arteries to go with that?"

"Why not," Dean said. "Hurry up!"

"Be careful of your stit—"

"Just go get the food!" Dean interrupted him, lathering his hair.

In the time it took Dean to rinse, bandage one of the cuts on his forehead, and head out of the steam-filled bathroom to his duffel bag, Sam had returned with the food.

"There's a fast-food place in walking distance from the motel," Sam explained.

"Dude," Dean sighed, not bothering to dress as he reached for a wrapped cheeseburger with a hand shaking from hunger. "Let's never leave."

"Like hell," Sam replied around a mouthful of fries. "This is the smallest room we've ever had. Look." He stood and lifted his hand above his head. Dean watched as he pressed his palm flat on the ceiling, his arm still slightly bent at the elbow.

Dean shrugged, reaching for a second burger. "Guess they didn't have gigantors in mind when they built the place."

"You can say that again," Sam grumbled, dropping down to sit on the foot of Dean's bed. "I think I'm developing claustrophobia."

"I'll just add that to my list of _Weird Facts About Sam_."

"Shut up." Sam reached for more fries. "You try being trapped in the world's smallest motel room with a brother recovering from blood loss and two channels on the TV."

Dean cut his eyes over to Sam. "Two channels?"

"I know," Sam nodded. "It was more interesting watching you sleep."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Okay, that's just creepy."

"Like you haven't done it before."

"I can honestly say I've never watched myself sleep," Dean said, wadding up the paper from one cheeseburger and reaching for another.

"Well, trust me. It's boring," Sam sighed. "I'm just glad you finally decided to wake up. I started getting headaches from too much computer time."

"On the plus side, your cuts are healing fast," Dean remarked, looking at Sam's cheek. Two of the slices were barely noticeable.

Sam nodded. "Thanks to you."

Dean bounced his eyebrows. "What can I say…I've got the magic touch."

"You wish," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

He got up and crossed to the bathroom, pulling his T-shirt over his head and dropping it neatly into the pile of dirty clothes as he did so. It occurred to Dean that Sam had quite effectively taken care of both of them over the last day and a half and had done so with his own rhythm and sense of organization. It wasn't as if Sam hadn't been on his own before—a few times in fact. But on his own and responsible for Dean were two different matters.

The last time Sam had to do that, Dean had been sure he was on his way out. Until, of course, they took a road trip to Nebraska. Dean may be been physically present, but Sam had essentially been alone and had done just fine. Both times.

Frowning at what that thought implied, Dean looked at the scrawl of notes stacked on top of Sam's laptop as he continued to eat. He had to grin slightly as he noted that Sam had started using the blank pages from John's journal when he'd run out of motel stationary.

Flipping the papers around to face him, he scanned the writing.

"Sam!"

"Yeah?" Sam called back over the sound of the shower.

"Why do we care about…_villain hitting_?"

He heard the water shut off and waited until Sam opened the door, letting a billow of steam escape into the already stuffy room. _For a tiny motel, it had a damn good supply of hot water_, Dean thought. Sam stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist and knotted at his hip.

"It's this…ritual thing I found when I was looking up demons."

Dean pursed his lips. "Uh-huh. And, uh…why were you looking up demons?"

Sam shrugged, digging through his duffel bag. "Figure we should know as much about 'em as we can, right? I mean, if we're gonna go up against one…y'know, when Dad finds it, or whatever."

Dean sat back in the chair. "Why didn't you just look through Dad's journal?"

Sam pulled a pair of clean jeans up over his boxers. "I did," he replied, putting on a dark blue T-shirt with a wasted-looking greyhound on the front as he turned around. "I wanted to know more."

"Sam, Dad's got all we need to know—"

"It's not the Holy Grail, Dean," Sam snapped. "Dad learned this stuff as he went along; it's not like we never go to libraries or search online or whatever."

Dean felt his frown deepen, the line between his brow burrowing until a headache blossomed.

"He has protection symbols, and exorcism rites," Sam continued. "He has how to detect one with holy water and random notes on weather patterns and omens that don't make _any_ sense. At least not to me."

Dean looked at the leather book sticking out of the top of his duffel bag. Sam sat down across from him.

"Yeah, well…," Dean conceded, not taking his eyes from the journal. "He does kinda write like—"

"Yoda," Sam finished, nodded. "So you've said. I mean, he gave us what he knew when he left," Sam continued as if sensing Dean was gearing up to go on the defensive, "but half of it's written like—"

"We've been inside his head," Dean completed, nodding.

Sam was quiet for a moment. "I just think that…since he's been out there, y'know, looking for this demon, he's learned a lot more than we're going to find in that book."

Dean reached up to rub at his now-aching head, remembering too late that his forehead had been split open by Daeva claws. He dropped his hand into his lap, the rough texture of the towel familiar beneath his fingertips, and rolled his neck. His skin felt tight, dry, like it was stretched too thin over the frame of his muscles and bones. He shifted in the chair, looking at the cuts on his side where they stood out against the smooth plane of his belly, the angry red a sharp contrast to the towel covering the rest of his body.

_Dad knows something…_.

But there hadn't been time to find out more, and now they were on their own again. The idea of picking up where Dad had left off all those many months ago turned the food he'd just inhaled into a rock of dread in his stomach.

It all felt so much bigger now. More than just kicking over an altar table and vanquishing spirits. Something was after his dad. The same something that killed his mom. And that pissed him off.

"Dad said he was going to kill it," Sam reminded him, as if following the path of his thoughts.

"I know," Dean sighed, looking back up at his brother.

"Far as I can tell?" Sam grabbed the stack of papers from the laptop, then dropped them again. "You _can't _kill a demon. You can torture it, trap it, exorcise it…but you can't _kill_ it."

"Well, Dad seemed to think there was a way."

Sam's steady eyes caught him. "And that's good enough for you, isn't it?"

His tone wasn't accusatory. Sam was, Dean realized, finding wonder in that fact. For a moment, Dean was ashamed to be perceived as such a simple being: a soldier following orders, a man with one job, one mission, and one way to get it done.

Tearing his eyes away from Sam's, Dean used the edge of the table to push himself to his feet, closing his eyes briefly as the rest of the world caught up with his change in altitude. He hated feeling weak; it was his own damn fault, though. He'd been so wrapped up in trying _not_ to react to his dad's sudden arrival and just as sudden departure after all this time he hadn't paid attention to his body and the warning signs it had given him.

"You okay?"

Sam had stood with him, he realized, and had a hand hovering near his elbow as if expecting him to topple over any moment.

"Fine," he snapped.

"You sure? 'Cause you just went white."

Not bothering to answer, Dean turned and made his way to his duffel bag. He dug out clothes and dropped his towel, dressing as quickly as his wounds would allow, unwilling to even let a small hiss of pain escape his tightly-closed lips. He sat on the edge of his messy bed to pull on his boots, glancing up briefly at Sam.

"What?"

"Nothin'," Sam mumbled, turning away and opening the laptop. He muttered something else, too low for Dean to hear.

"Talkin' to yourself, Sammy?"

Sam's sigh was so burdened Dean almost laughed. His brother was unique: a man capable of dispatching a number of creatures multiple ways who was easily larger than most of the hunters they'd encountered and yet still fell victim to the younger-sibling mold of using passive-aggressive behavior until he felt he'd made his point.

"I just said," Sam spoke up, his head tilting slightly to the side as his tone grew sassy, "that it sucks being Superman's little brother."

"Superman was an only child. And an orphan," Dean pointed out, pulling on his boots. He stood, pulling in a steadying breath of stuffy air. "Maybe you're more like…Robin."

"Maybe you should bite me," Sam lifted an eyebrow in challenge, but Dean didn't miss the amused twinkle in his brother's eyes.

"I'll think about it," he joked, "right after coffee."

"Coffee?" Sam squeaked, pausing Dean's hand as he reached for the door. "You just had lunch!"

Dean shrugged. "And your point is…?"

Waving him off, Sam sighed again. "Go get your coffee. I'll just…look for our next hunt…or…something."

Dean opened the door. "Look down south. Someplace sunny." He stepped outside and closed the door on Sam's eye-roll.

The mid-afternoon air was crisp, the wind biting through the layers of shirts he'd chosen and crawling up his strangely over-sensitive skin in gooseflesh. He almost turned back for his jacket, but then registered that he suddenly felt better, more balanced. The fog that had forced its way into his consciousness from the moment he'd opened his eyes had lifted and he filled his lungs with fresh air.

As he crossed the lot to the fast-food restaurant Sam had referred to earlier, Dean allowed himself a moment to think about nothing. No absent father, no petulant brother, no missed opportunities, no bad guys, no car, no music…nothing. It was infrequently quiet inside his head and he mentally rolled in the peace as he walked up to the counter, smiled at the teenager who gaped openly at the wounds gracing his forehead, ordered a large coffee and walked slowly back across the lot.

He'd almost made it completely to the room wrapped in the bliss of silent thought when his cell phone rang. Deep Purple's _Smoke On The Water_ bleated from the back pocket of his jeans and Dean sighed, practically feeling the scuttle of worried, tangled, necessary thoughts return.

"Hello?"

The rush of air across the mouthpiece on the other end immediately told him the caller was in a moving vehicle. The pause before his name told him it was his father.

"_Dean?"_

"Dad? You okay?"

"_I'm fine. Listen, I need you boys to do something for me."_

Ignoring the pinch in his heart shouting in frustration that his dad hadn't thought to ask after their well-being—considering the fact that they'd both been covered in blood when last he saw them—or if they got out of Chicago safely—considering the fact that the Daeva were merely distracted, not defeated—Dean drew his body to attention and turned his focus solely on the phone in his grip.

"What's up?"

"_I got a call from...an old friend. He didn't give me much detail, but he's in trouble or he wouldn't have called."_

"A hunter?"

"_Yes. He's down in a place called Maera, Texas."_

Dean blinked. "You want us to go to Texas?"

"_You got something else planned?"_

"Not exactly."

"_Good. His name is Leo Dent. He's a good guy, Dean."_

"What kind of trouble is he in?"

"_His message didn't say, but…._"

Dean heard a slew of unspoken words smack against the silence as he waited out his father.

"_Leo hunts with two other guys: Max Thomas and Jake Brand."_

"Okay…."

"_Get down to Maera and figure out what's going on. See what you can do to help."_

"Dad, where are you?" Dean frowned into the phone, hearing the static crackle back at him. "Why aren't you going?"

"_I've got a…a lead on this demon."_

"THE demon?"

"_I told you…way…kill it…."_

"Dad? You're breaking up."

"…_call…again. Watch out for…other."_

Dean hit the 'end' button as the line went down. _Watch out for your brother._ It was his dad's way of saying goodbye. Always had been.

"Texas, huh," he muttered as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. "Yee-freakin-haw."

When he stepped back into the motel room, he found Sam in the same position as when he left: shoulders bowed, head dipped, eyes on his screen. Without looking up, Sam called out, "Dude, I think I have something."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean asked casually, kicking the door shut behind him and crossing the short space to lean against the dresser.

"You know those omens I said Dad listed in the journal?"

"I've read the book, Sam."

Sam continued, oblivious to Dean's sarcasm. "Well, I think there may be something here," he pointed to the screen of his laptop.

Not yet ready to divulge the fact that Dad had called, Dean sipped his coffee. "You trying to tell me your computer's possessed?"

At that, Sam looked up. "What? No, I—what's the matter?"

Dean drew his head back, unnerved by the way his brother's eyes seemed to see through his walls as if they were made of glass. "Nothing."

"You sure?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Would you _quit_ asking me that? Nothing's the matter. I'm fine. And turn off that damn worried face already."

Frowning, glancing between Dean and the information on his screen, Sam said, "I found some articles about…cattle mutilations, some random lightening storms, strange symbols burned into the earth, people going missing—"

"You found this in your demon research?"

Sam shrugged. "I branched out…thought I'd try to see if I could make Dad make sense."

_Good luck with that._ Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying it out loud.

"Anyway, the latest events were just a few days ago, man. I think we oughta check it out." Sam closed his laptop, then stood and stretched, his arms bent to keep from hitting the ceiling. "Besides," he said mid-stretch. "It fits your criteria, location-wise."

"Let me guess," Dean sighed, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose. "Texas. Some little Podunk down called Maera."

Sam dropped his arms and stared at Dean in naked surprise. "How the _hell_ did you know that?"

Dean grinned around the edge of his coffee cup.

* * *

**a/n: **More to come in a week…. Hope you're enjoying thus far!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer/ Spoilers**: See chapter 1

**a/n**: Thanks for sticking with me. I so appreciate you taking time to read and offer me your thoughts. I promise to reply to each comment if I haven't already. Any of you who also visit my LiveJournal account, this is the chapter the 'preview' I posted a few weeks back came from.

Let's see what you make of this next part. I sincerely hope you continue to enjoy. *smile*

* * *

"_Now he has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That means nothing. People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."_

_~Albert Einstein_

_www_

_Maera, Texas 2005_

The problem with killing was that he could never get rid of the blood.

No matter how much he washed, he was never really clean. He smelled it on his clothes, felt it on his skin, tasted it in his food. As he sat at the counter now, listening to the low hum of conversation around him, he forced himself to swallow another mouthful of blood-flavored coffee.

He was losing them; he could feel it. They'd stayed with him over these past several weeks, their eyes dulling, their skin paling, their smiles vanishing. This morning had been the fourth life—if one could call it that—he'd taken, this afternoon would be the fourth hide they'd have to skin from a live calf, and tonight would be the fourth attempt at this goddamned ritual that had thus far left them all shaking, weak, and winded, but still in this town, in this time.

They'd tried it inside the Devil's Trap in the middle of the open plain. They'd tried it in the confines of his motel room. They'd tried it in the graveyard of the old church. Tonight they'd go to the Mission. San Jose de Valero was, for all intents and purposes, abandoned. Once a place of refuge and healing, the building began to crumble when the last priest died. Now and then, a candle or two could be seen burning, but without the funding and tourist trade of Missions like the Alamo, the old Missions were dying and would soon be nothing more than a name in a history book.

But it was still holy ground.

And that was the element Jake was sure they were missing. That and the blood of an innocent. The first three times, he'd been convinced that he'd had to get the blood of a virgin; it was one place he'd drawn the line. He'd been unable to cut a child and had replaced that bit of the ritual with lamb's blood.

_It had been good enough for washing away sins in the Old Testament._

But he wasn't working from the Bible. These were rules written by devils and he knew now that he had to be truly devious if he were to succeed. Innocent didn't necessarily mean young; it could simply mean someone who had not taken a life.

The bell above the diner door bounced and Jake looked up from the cup of coffee cooling in his hands. Leo entered and nodded once, acknowledging him, then veered to the left, away from the counter, to sit alone at a booth. Jake watched from the corner of his eyes as a waitress brought his friend a menu and a cup of coffee. He turned back to his own cup, feeling the cold arms of solitude squeeze tighter.

When the bell bounced against the door a second time, Jake didn't look up.

"Help you?" The waitress' drawl was slow and sleepy and made Jake want to drop his head into his arms on the counter top.

"Two coffees, please," returned a rough-edged, young-sounding voice.

Jake sensed the motion of two men sliding onto the stools at the far end of the counter. He began to trace the swirled pattern in the Formica countertop, mentally repeating the steps to the ritual, trying to convince himself it would work this time. He had the coin from 1870. He had the piece of human brain that controlled the body's perception of time. He had the map marked with the location. He had the herbs and the—

"Get you anything else?"

—symbols and the blood and the words and the time—

"Yeah. Guy at the gas station said you might know where we could find a Leo Dent?"

_What the hell?_

Jake jerked his head to the right before he could catch himself. Two seats down, near the exit, sat two young guys—no older than Sean had been—dressed in jeans, boots, and T-shirts, looking road-worn and hungry. One wore a leather jacket that gave him an edge and was watching the waitress expectantly; there was something in lines on his face that Jake recognized. Something familiar.

The guy was a soldier. Or a cop. He wasn't asking out of simply curiosity.

"That's him, there," the waitress said, pointing to the table where Leo sat, back to the door as always—a habit neither Max nor Jake had been able to break him of—calmly reading the latest _USA Today_.

Jake watched the guy smile, a warm thank-you that held just enough possibility he'd be welcomed back for more should he need it. The quiet one—obviously younger of the two—stood first and his hazel eyes tracked the room quickly, instinctively as his partner paid for the coffees. Jake felt his heartbeat quicken. He needed to get Leo out of there. Somehow, they'd been found out. Somehow, they'd been caught.

And he wasn't about to let Leo take the fall.

As the duo crossed the small diner, Jake tensed, working out just how quickly he could snatch his friend and get back to Max's truck before—

"Leo Dent?"

Same voice as before. The shorter one did all the talking for this pair, it seemed.

"Somethin' I can do for you boys?" Leo replied, calmly.

In their trio, Leo was the cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. He was always the first to throw down a statement of doubt, uncertainty, caution. During the war, the men in their unit had nicknamed him _What If_. But when the situation called for it, Leo played it as smooth as any hunter Jake had ever met. That chameleon-like quality that had saved Jake a time or two. He almost wanted to turn and watch ol' Leo grind these two into mush.

"I think it's more what we can do for you."

"Oh?" Leo said. "And what's that?"

"You called our dad," came a different voice. The taller of the pair had a softer tone, a gentler quality in how he presented his words.

"Son, I don't know what you're talking—"

"Name's Winchester," interrupted the gruff-voiced partner. "I'm Dean. This is my brother, Sam. You called our dad," he repeated.

"You're…," Leo's voice caught as he tried to find the words. "You're John Winchester's boys?"

"Yessir," the two replied in unison.

Jake realized he'd stopped breathing. His lips began to tingle. He focused on the coffee cup, watching the ripples roll toward the center as the cup bounced off his suddenly shaking hand.

They'd turned on him. _No way Leo did this on his own_. They'd called for help. They didn't trust him anymore.

"Let's…we gotta…how about we take this outside?" Leo was saying, his voice shaking almost as much as Jake's hands.

Jake held perfectly still as the door bell bounced once, twice, and then he turned, making sure his best friend, his partner, a man as close as any brother, saw the betrayal sitting heavy in his eyes as he turned.

With a now-familiar sense of cold satisfaction, Jake turned back toward the counter, not watching as Leo left with John Winchester's sons.

www

"You okay, man?" Dean asked, reaching out to steady the other man as he stumbled free of the diner.

"Fine," Leo replied tersely. He pulled off his round glasses, his eyes appearing smaller without them, and used the edge of his buttoned-down shirt to clean the lenses. "You got a car nearby?"

Dean nodded, then led the way to the Impala. As Leo climbed into the back, Dean shared a look with Sam across the roof of the car before sliding behind the wheel.

"Drive," Leo ordered.

"Any particular—"

"Just drive!"

"Alllrighty then," Dean muttered, turning on the engine. Both he and Sam flinched as Boston's _Don't Look Back_ pounded from the speakers. Dean darted a finger quickly at the power button and shut it off. "Sorry about that."

"Where's John?" Leo asked as Dean backed out of the parking space.

"He's, uh," Dean shot a look at Sam, noting how his brother kept his eye on the side mirror, angled at just the right slant to see into the backseat from the passenger side. "He's on a job."

The main street of Maera was wide, slanted parking on either side of the main road offering the illusion of increased width. The buildings were stone, brick, or stucco with years dating back to 1868 carved into the worn fronts. Dean saw one stop light hung low over the street roughly two blocks up. It was blinking yellow.

"Close by?"

"Not exactly."

"Son of a bitch," Leo muttered, slamming his back against the rear seat. "I shoulda known that bastard wouldn't have—"

"Hey!" Dean snapped, a frown pulling his brows low and puckering the nearly-healed cuts on his forehead. He jerked the wheel to the right, stopping the Impala along the side of the road. "You got about ten seconds to tell me why my brother and I just hauled our asses down here."

Leo met his eyes in the rear view mirror. "My guess is because your daddy told you to."

Pressing his tongue against his teeth, Dean looked over at Sam who shook his head in return.

"Okay, we're done." Dean jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Nice chattin' with you Leo. Get out."

"What? No!"

Dean twisted in the seat, registering in the back of his mind that the motion tugged uncomfortably on the sutured skin along his side, and slung his elbow over the back, pinning Leo with a _don't bullshit me_ look.

"What is your problem, dude?"

Leo's eyes slipped from Dean over to Sam and back. Dean knew his brother had fixed the same stone-cold stare on this man as he had, and would have smiled at the ease in which they'd returned to the natural pattern of breathing for the other one if it wouldn't have totally ruined the impact.

"How…how do I know I can trust you?" Leo asked.

"Sam?"

"You can trust us," Sam replied, his tone matching Dean's.

Leo rubbed his face, his fingers pushing his glasses up onto his sweaty forehead. "Son of a bitch," he repeated, this time with a note of exhausted defeat in his voice.

Dean felt his resolve softening at that tone. "Listen, man," he said, ducking his chin to catch Leo's eyes with his. "Dad said you were in trouble. Said you wouldn't have called if you weren't. He'd be here if he could. He can't, so he sent us."

"The next best thing," Sam chimed in.

Dean sent Sam a mental fist-bump, but kept his eyes on Leo. They waited, silently watching, as Leo looked out through the side window, down at his hands, past them, then back at their faces.

"This isn't easy," he started.

The brothers remained quiet.

"I didn't tell the others that I called John," Leo continued, looking back down at his hands. "And Jake," he shook his head. "He's not gonna understand."

Dean adjusted his position, the burn in his side becoming distracting, and caught the sympathetic look on Sam's face. _Three, two, one…_

"Why don't you just start at the beginning," Sam encouraged, his voice pitched low.

Dean looked back at Leo, expecting the older man to tumble head-first into Sam's invitation. He was surprised when instead the man's face tightened with anger.

"The beginning? You want me to start from _the beginning_?" Leo snapped, his eyes going dark and dangerous.

Dean resisted the urge to put a hand on Sam's arm and draw him out of harm's way.

"Boy, this all started before you were an _idea_. Your daddy might be a good hunter, but compared to Jake…he's a fuckin' rookie, get me?"

To his credit, Sam simply blinked back, waiting. Dean took his cue from his brother, tempering the urge to shove his fist down this guy's throat for speaking about his father in such a way.

"Max and me have been hunting with Jake since before either of you were born," Leo said, sagging with the words, "and I'm about to.... I can't…I don't even know why I called John…."

"Because you need help," Dean supplied. "Help _we_ can give you."

Leo looked at him. "You don't want any part of this, boy."

"Why?" Sam pressed. "What's going on, Leo?"

Leo swallowed; the force of it echoing loudly in the confines of the car. "You boys know anything about demons?"

Dean glanced quickly at his brother, watching with cold fear as Sam's face paled slightly, his eyes widening as he registered the significance of the question.

"We know enough," Dean replied.

Leo huffed out a merciless laugh. "Well, that answers my question." He put his hand on the door handle.

"Wait!" Dean reached out to stop him. "We aren't gonna just…go away, y'know. Either you tell us, or we'll figure it out on our own."

Leo rolled his lips against his teeth. Time sifted between them as the brothers watched Leo decide. Without looking back at them, directing his voice to the floor, he said, "Jake, Max, and I…tortured and exorcised a demon about a month ago."

"Tortured?" Sam asked in a hushed voice. "Why?"

"So that we could get the elements of a ritual from it."

"A ritual for…," Dean prompted.

Leo looked up. "Time travel."

Dean barked out a quick laugh; he couldn't help it. At the bleak look in Leo's eyes, he sobered quickly. "Oh, wait…you're…you're serious?"

"It's a ritual that calls for the suprachiasmatic nucleas of an immortal—"

"Hold up, the what now?" Dean interrupted.

"—the hide of a live calf, blood of an innocent, agrimony, mandrake, and patchouli—"

"Okay, now, _that_ I recognize," Dean mumbled.

"—and it all has to combine at midnight with a phrase spoken over it in Latin."

"So, what, no DeLorean? No space-time continuum? You run out of flux capacitors?"

"Dean," Sam warned.

"What, Sam? _Tell me_ you don't think this is crazy. Even for us."

Sam sighed and faced him. "It doesn't matter what _I_ think," he said patiently, his eyes level as he tossed familiar words back at Dean. "_He_ believes it and right now, that's all that matters."

Shaking his head, Dean looked back over the seat at Leo. "So, you're saying all these…these cattle mutilations and symbols burned into the ground and that shit—that's you guys?"

Leo nodded. "Tonight will be the fourth attempt."

"Well, this is just…freakin' _fabulous_."

"Why did you call Dad?" Sam asked. "Not…not to…_help_ you with the ritual?"

Dean blinked in surprise. The thought hadn't even occurred to him.

"No," Leo shook his head, sadness aging his face with lines drawn from his eyes to the bow of his mouth. "I called him," he took a shaking breath, his voice barely audible, "to help me stop Jake from doing this."

"How are you planning to do that?" Dean asked.

Leo opened the door. "Kill him," he said, then exited the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

Dean gaped at Leo's retreating form, unable to string together a coherent reply.

"Oh…boy," Sam breathed.

"You can say that again," Dean eased around to face the front. He slid the gear into drive and pulled out onto the road, continuing down the block.

"You think we should call Dad?"

Dean started to nod, then shook his head.

"Why not?"

"He's got a lead on the demon, right? Or the way to kill it?"

"So he said," Sam conceded.

"Last time we called him for help we almost got him killed," Dean pointed out.

"But these are his friends," Sam replied.

Dean shook his head again. "I don't think so, Sam. I've never heard of them—have you?"

"No."

"I think they just know him," Dean continued. "Maybe they served with him, who knows. But…I don't think it's worth risking him."

"Oh, but it's okay to risk _us_, huh?"

Dean shot his brother a look as he rounded the block and headed back toward the diner. "You scared, Sammy?"

"You wish," Sam shot back, shoving a fist against Dean's shoulder.

Dean was about to fire back a barbed retort when he noticed Sam's gaze fixed on something through the front windshield.

"What is it?"

"That's Leo," Sam jutted his chin forward.

Dean pulled off to the side of the road in the shadow of a storefront and slouched low in the seat, watching. Leo had his hands on his hips, his head bent as another man confronted him, anger turning his face ruddy. As the unknown man continued to press his apparently Very Important Point at Leo, a faded red pick-up pulled up and a third man jumped out.

"Gangs all here," Dean whispered, watching as the third man pulled off a sweat-stained Stetson and revealed a thick shock of white hair to match his handlebar mustache. "Dude looks like that old bouncer from the movie _Roadhouse_."

"Patrick Swayze?" Sam asked, his tone doubtful.

Dean shot him a derisive look. "No, the _old_ one."

Sam shrugged, then slouched lower in the seat as the white-haired man shoved his hat back on his head and turned in their direction to light a cigarette. "Patrick Swayze's kinda old."

"Somewhere along the line, I failed in your education," Dean whispered back. "They're on the move."

The man with the mustache and cowboy hat grabbed the red-faced man by the shoulder and shoved him toward the back seat of the truck. He pointed a finger at Leo and jerked his thumb at the truck. Head still low, Leo rounded the bed of the truck and climbed in. After pulling in a drag from his cigarette, the man in the cowboy hat dropped the butt on the ground and snubbed it with the toe of a worn boot. Moments later, he was in the truck and pulling away.

Dean slid the gear into drive and eased away from the sidewalk.

"Where are you going?"

"After them," Dean replied.

"Dean, we don't know what we're up against," Sam protested.

"Calm down, Sammy," Dean soothed. "We're not going to charge in and blast them all away. Besides, we have until midnight."

"How do you know—"

"After Leo rambled on about that super-sized nucleus thing," Dean said, easing up on the gas to increase the distance between the Impala and the pick-up, "he said that it all had to be done at midnight. Figures demons would be unoriginal."

"Okay, so…we follow them…then what?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I'm making this up as I go along."

"We _aren't_ going to kill his friend," Sam asserted.

Dean glanced over at him. "It's like you don't even know me."

"I'm not kidding," Sam pressed. "There's no way Dad would—"

"Jesus, Sam, calm down! _No_, okay? We're not going to kill anyone."

They were silent for a minute as Dean paused at the yellow light long enough that the red pick-up shrank on the horizon.

"I _do_ know you," Sam said suddenly.

Dean looked over at his brother. "What?"

"I know you better than anyone." Sam was looking at him, his eyes so troubled they looked like weather. "But…sometimes I can't figure you out."

Dean looked away, undone by the stark honesty in Sam's statement. "Maybe that's how it's supposed to be," he offered quietly, keeping the truck in his sights. "Y'know? I mean…I'm willing to bet that most brothers don't know how many scars the other one has on their body—"

"Eighteen, not counting the Daeva marks."

"See? Not having each other figured out is…normal, Sam."

"You have me figured out, though," Sam replied, almost sullenly.

Dean huffed a brief laugh, then shook his head. "Don't count on it."

"He's turning." Sam straightened a bit. "Heading toward that Mission."

"The what?"

"Kinda like an old church—you've heard of the Alamo?"

"Of course I've heard of the Alamo," Dean snapped back, biting back a grin. "John Wayne played Davy Crockett."

"You're impossible."

"Okay, so, we need to find someplace to hole up and figure out what we're going to do next."

"Wish we'd had more time to talk to Leo," Sam sighed as Dean wheeled the car around.

"Why?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "'Cause we don't know _why_ they're trying this crazy time travel thing…I mean, what are they looking for? How far back are they going? What started all of this?"

"Sammy, Sammy." Dean grinned and shook his head. "Always with the questions."

"You don't care?"

"Not really," Dean said, barely pausing at the yellow light this time. "We got a bad guy doing bad stuff and it's our job to stop it."

"Yeah, but this time…it's different. The bad guy's human," Sam pointed out.

"The name Bender mean anything to you?"

Sam bobbed his head. "Okay, but still…these guys are _hunters_, Dean. Something really awful had to happen to get them to use the thing they've been fighting against all this time."

"You never know," Dean said, pulling into a spot in front of the diner. "I mean, think about it, man. Dad was a mechanic before mom was killed. He never thought in a million years he'd be hunting evil the rest of his life."

Sam nodded, but looked unconvinced.

"Tell you what," Dean offered, opening his door and slinging a leg out, his boot hitting the pavement with a thud. "We'll make sure we get the whole story out of them before we blow them away."

"Not funny," Sam grumbled, slamming the car door shut behind him and stomping into the diner.

"Oh, come on!" Dean called after him. "It was a little funny!"

www

"The suprachiasmatic nucleas controls the body's biological clock," Sam said in a hushed voice, his back muscles spasming as he sat bent over the computer screen at a table in the diner. He was surprised to find that it was a Wifi Hotspot, but pounced on that fact without hesitation.

Dean looked back at him, his face blank, mouth full of rhubarb pie.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Ummm… I heard blah blah blah body, blah blah clock," Dean replied, scooping more pie onto an oversized fork. "Dude, it's true. Everything _is_ bigger in Texas. Think I should get a Stetson?"

"Dean, seriously."

"I think I'd make a bitchin' cowboy, man," Dean continued, regarding his faded reflection in the diner window to his right.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, unwilling to feed quarters into his already inflated ego, and continued to Google everything he could remember Leo saying. "I wonder what he meant by immortal?"

"What?" Dean zeroed in on him, looking engaged for the first time in hours.

"Werewolf, maybe? What other kind of immortal is there?"

Dean shrugged and spoke around his last bite of pie. "All kindsa lore on immortals," he said, sipping his coffee to wash the bite down. "'Specially in Japanese lore."

Sam sat up, impressed in spite of himself. "How do you know this?"

Dean folded his lips in, then wiped his mouth on a small napkin he pulled from the dispenser. Without looking back at his brother, Dean said, "I'm more than just a blunt instrument, Sam."

Sam frowned, stung by the implication that he took Dean for granted. "I know that."

Scratching the back of his head, resting his other hand on his thigh, Dean continued, "Anyway, I figure all this stuff…all the _why_ and _what for_ shit? It doesn't matter. We go in there, we grab Jake, we hand him over to the cops for the cattle mutilations, and we get back on the road."

Sam sat back, tilting his head to the side. "That plan has more holes in it than a screen door."

"What's your bright idea, Genius?"

"We gotta…talk to the guy," Sam said. "Find out what he's after. Why he's doing this. Convince him to stop."

Dean shook his head. "Not gonna work."

"Why not?"

"You think Dad coulda been convinced to stop?" Dean leaned across the table, pressing the tip of his finger into the wooden top and lowering his voice as his tone became strident, clipped. "He had two little kids with him and he still found ways to kill these bastards!"

Sam matched him, position and tone. "You think he would've just stopped the first time someone took all his weapons away and tossed him in jail?"

They stared at each other a moment until Dean sighed, sitting back. Sam watched with a flash of concern as his brother snaked an arm across his ribs to rest against his wounded side.

"So what are we gonna do, then?" Dean asked aloud.

"From the sound of it," Sam said, turning his eye critical as he regarded Dean's posture. "They got everything they need to try this ritual tonight."

Dean rolled his neck. Sam could hear the vertebrae crackle with the movement. "And they've done it three other times, so you gotta think they're getting faster, if not better."

"How about we gear up with non-lethal weapons, bust up the party?"

"Non-lethal?" Dean frowned.

"Rock salt," Sam clarified, watching as Dean automatically reached up to rub at his chest. "Won't kill 'em, but hurts like hell, or so I've heard."

Dean flipped him off with the hand against his chest. "Then what?"

Sam grinned at him. "I'm making this up as I go along."

"Anyone tell you you're a bitch?"

"Only my brother," Sam said, his dimples digging into his cheeks as his grin widened. "Every damn day."

"Fine." Dean slid out of the booth. "We've got…five hours until midnight. I say we get a room and sleep for three of those."

After finding out that there was a motel literally around the block from the diner, they left the Impala parked where she was, grabbed their duffels and walked over. They had their pick of rooms—apparently tourism wasn't the best in Maera as everyone went down to San Antonio. Dean chose the one furthest from the office and they dropped their bags on the floor inside the door.

Before Sam could say another word, Dean crawled onto the bed, fully clothed, emptied his pockets of a Zippo lighter, four bullets, three quarters, and a pack of gum, then slid his Bowie from its back sheath, tucked it beneath a pillow and fell asleep with impressive speed. Shaking his head, Sam sat on the other bed, stretching his legs out on a mattress that was actually long enough for him for a change, and began to flip channels, the TV volume turned low.

He was just getting into a Clint Eastwood movie when he heard the unmistakable sound of Dean in pain. Looking over quickly, he saw that his brother had turned to his back, but was twisted slightly sideways, his hand against his wounded side. Frowning, Sam sat up, leaning across the space between the beds and touched Dean's arm, intending to wake him.

He was surprised at the heat he felt there.

Standing, Sam leaned over the bed, the light from the TV dancing blue across Dean's features and giving him the illusion of paleness. Carefully, Sam rested the back of his fingers on Dean's cheek, inadvertently rousing his brother.

A sound that was more a tangle of consonants than an actual word tumbled from Dean's lips and Sam saw the flash of the knife blade two beats before Dean brought it instinctively around. Stumbling back to an awkward seat on his own bed, Sam raised his hands in surrender.

"Whoa! Easy!"

"Sammy?" Dean's voice broke across the word.

"I was…trying to wake you up, man," Sam said, his eyes on Dean's still-raised knife.

"Well, say something next time," Dean mumbled, dropping his hand and releasing the knife. He reached up both hands and rubbed at his eyes. "I was having a…freaky-assed dream."

"Nightmare?" Sam said, trying to calm down from the adrenalin rush of a near-miss.

Dean groaned as he rolled to a sitting position. "No…just…weird. I was…trying to…," he blinked and yawned, looking toward the TV with unseeing eyes, his hair sticking up around his head in hap-hazard tufts, "cut up these little black rocks with scissors and it was raining notebook paper."

"You were having a dream about…," Sam chuckled, "about rock, paper, scissors?"

"Laugh it up," Dean peered blearily at him. "You were trying to scrape ice off a window with a butter knife."

"No more pie before bed," Sam declared, watching as Dean stood stiffly, a hand at his side.

"Wasn't the pie," Dean replied, working out a kink in his shoulder. "It's this damn job. I hate going in blind."

"I know," Sam sighed, shutting off the TV. "We could still call Dad," he offered.

Dean shook his head. "No," he said. "No, we got this." He headed toward the bathroom.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Sam scrambled, trying to pick his words carefully. "You need any aspirin?"

He waited through the pregnant pause. He knew Dean was working on a fever. He knew he was stiff and hurting. And he knew he was stubborn enough not to draw attention to it. Once they got through tonight, Sam planned on taking another look at the stitches he'd sewn into his brother's skin.

"Yeah, I could use a couple," Dean conceded.

Sam wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried.

www

It wasn't a cool night, but Dean felt small shivers building as his skin rubbed against the soft cotton of his long-sleeved shirt. The aspirin he swallowed would kick in soon enough, he knew, and he'd stuffed several extra in the pocket of his jeans next to his lighter where he knew he'd remember them. When they got through tonight, he'd have Sam take another look at the stitches. He could feel the ache in his skin sinking low through his muscles and into his bones.

They parked the Impala next to a split-rail fence beside what might have once been a barn or grain shed about a hundred years ago. The half-moon was bright and practically spilled a silver path from the car toward the Mission. As they approached, Dean glanced to his left and saw the small town of Maera spread out in a strip of lights and structure, people having long-since retreated from the night.

Inside San Jose de Valero, however, it was a different story. Shapeless words floated up without meaning from voices raised in anger. Dean looked at Sam, instinctively checking that his brother was adequately armed and nodded toward the left of the main entrance. Sam took his post in a low crouching run. After a moment, Dean joined on the other side of the door.

They listened for a moment, trying to time their entrance.

"…not going to work this time either!"

"Dammit, Leo, you don't know that!"

"I _do_ know it, Jake. I know it because it's wrong. This…this is all _wrong_!"

"So you called Winchester? Without talking to either of us?"

"You can't blame him for that, Jake."

"I can blame him for whatever the fuck I want! The demon killed _my_ son. Mine!"

Dean shot a look at Sam and saw the flash of understanding cross his brother's features.

"You're supposed to be my friend, Leo."

"I _am_, Jake—"

"You called Winchester and let him…flaunt his boys in my face—"

"He doesn't know about Sean—"

"Shut the hell up!"

Dean heard a scuffle begin and nodded once at Sam. They straightened and Dean reared back, kicking open the heavy wooden door. In unison, they stepped through the opening and cocked the slide-action shotguns.

"All right," Dean called out, his voice layering an echo over the sound of the shotguns in the empty church. "What'd we miss?"

The interior of the mission was basically empty. Dirt coated the stone floor and what was left of a few wooden benches that had been shoved to either side of the room. Cobwebs hung in thick sweeps like ancient drapes from the overhead beams. The interior walls were crumbling and Dean could see a table of some sort shoved beneath a deteriorating corner as if holding it up somehow. The men had turned that table into an altar with candles, a wide bowl, and various small bags and pouches of unknown origin strewn across the surface.

"What are you boys doing here?" Leo gasped.

Another man—Jake, Dean assumed—had Leo's shirt tight in his fists and had pulled the smaller man up to his toes. The third man--Max, by process of elimination--stood back, close to the altar.

"We're, uh," Sam cleared his throat, "here to help."

Jake released Leo and took a step back. And that was when Dean saw her. A small figure, bound, gagged, and unconscious was lying on the floor at the foot of the altar.

"What the hell?" he demanded, his eyes shooting up to accuse the three men staring back at him.

"Blood of an innocent," Sam whispered next to him.

Dean's eyes flew to Leo, then back to the girl. "You crossed the line, man."

Leo looked at Jake. "Listen to them," he said.

"Go to Hell," Jake snarled.

"You kill that girl, you'll meet me there," Leo replied.

"You think I care about that? _You think I give a damn_ _about Hell_? I'm living it. Now. Every day!"

"Jake," Max stepped in, "you don't have to do this. You don't have to use this girl. We can find another way."

"I found _this_ way." Jake pointed at the girl. "It ends tonight."

"Please, Jake," Leo pleaded softly. "I'm saying this as your friend. Let it go."

"I should have realized it the first time," Jake spat, his face red with anger and indignation, his hand shaking as he curled them into fists. "It didn't work because of you two! You didn't believe!"

"Believe _what_, man?" Max bellowed. "That you could go _back in time_ and find some weapon that doesn't exist—"

"It _does_ exist!"

"—just so you can kill the demon that killed Sean?"

Jake took a step toward Max and Dean instinctively raised his shotgun.

"It's so much bigger than that, can't you see? I could change the _course of history_! That demon…that demon might never have a chance to get to Sean!"

"Or Sean might not ever be born," Sam pointed out.

Dean looked at his brother, letting his gun lower a bit. In his periphery, he saw Leo and Jake face them as Max bent down to the girl.

"What did you say?" Jake demanded, moving toward Sam.

"Think about it," Sam said, the barrel of his gun pointed at the floor, his eyes on Jake. "Think about all the tiny little accidents that had to happen for us to be here, now, in this moment. You change one thing, you risk a…a cascade effect. You risk your own existence."

"Listen to the kid, Jake," Leo implored. "This has gone on long enough. Max and me…we have your back…you know that. But this…I can't—_we_ can't do this anymore."

"Then leave," Jake said in a dull voice, his eyes on Sam. Dean brought his gun up once more, stepping closer to the older hunter, not liking the way he looked at his brother. "I don't need you two. I never did."

"Jake—" Leo took a step forward, and in the moment Dean saw the knife in Jake's hand.

It hadn't been there before, Dean was sure of it, but it was there now and before he could pull the necessary warning together, Jake raised it, charging his friend. As if wired together, Dean and Sam raised their weapons and fired. The rock salt caught Jake on his side and he tumbled back against the altar, the contents of the alabaster bowl sloshing with the impact.

Dean instinctively advanced, his body programmed to ensure the threat was neutralized. Without looking, he bellowed at Max, "Get the girl! Get her out of here!"

Advancing on Jake, he saw Max lift the pliant girl from the ground and turn to run out of the Mission. He moved to kick the knife away from Jake's hand; just as he shifted off-balance to do so, he felt a mighty _thunk_ against his leg and he flipped, landing hard on his back, his head cracking against the stone floor. Gasping, the air having vacated his lungs, he blinked in surprise as Jake knelt next to him.

"Sam…," he croaked, unable to get enough air for sound. Jake was whispering something, reaching for him. "Sam…."

Dean fumbled to his right, trying to find his shotgun. His hand closed around the hilt of Jake's knife instead and he lifted it. Jake continued to whisper, meaningless, muted, inconsequential words, as he grappled for the knife, climbing onto Dean to exert superior force. Dean gasped breathlessly, fighting to keep the knife away from his throat as he felt one knee press into his wounded side, the other against his shoulder.

"_Dean!_"

Weak from empty lungs, Dean fought to find Sam, searching the edge of his vision for his brother. His chest burned, his side stabbed with a unique pain, and his head spun, but he found him. He saw Sam raise the shotgun as if in slow motion, reaching for one more blast at Jake. Inconceivably, Leo rushed forward and slammed against Sam, knocking him to the ground and sending his gun flying.

And then Dean felt the heat of Jake's blade as the tip found the vulnerable flesh at the base of his throat and the skin parted.

He cried out—the sound beginning as fury before melding into resistance and then finally thinning out into a scream of pain. With that pain came a strange clarity of thought and he finally recognized the words Jake was whispering: _Latin_.

He'd been muttering Latin as they struggled.

Dimly, Dean was aware that time was passing, and as he fought for breath on the stone floor of a Spanish Mission, the elements Jake needed were culminating into the ritual he'd been trying to realize.

"B-blood of…the innocent…," Dean gasped, trying to interrupt the man's train of thought.

He felt a sick roll of nausea shudder through him as Jake smiled. "You'll do."

Dean shoved at the knife with all his remaining strength, a weak cry of _Sam, where the hell are you_ climbing through his subconscious, and growled, "I'm n-not…innocent…you s-sick fuck…."

"Have you ever taken a human life, boy?" Jake asked in a low, dangerous whisper.

Dean felt himself go still. The knife was suddenly easy to push away. Head spinning from pain and lack of air, Dean watched as Jake threw the knife—the blade wet with Dean's blood—into the sacrificial bowl and spoke the Latin phrase one last time.

Instantly, Dean knew something was wrong. Jake tumbled off of his chest, his hand gripping Dean's forearm in a convulsion, his eyes rolling back into his head. Coughing as air rushed back to him, Dean pushed himself weakly to his elbow, searching for his brother. Sam was mere feet away, fighting Leo for dominance of the shotgun.

"Sam!" Dean cried, finally finding the strength to add weight to the cry. "Sam! Go!"

He saw Sam turn panicked eyes toward him and then the room froze. The air seemed to crackle with electricity; it crawled across Dean's skin, lifting each hair until his body was like a live wire, tense and tight and stretched to bursting.

Then, as if the universe pressed a lit match to a fuse, heat exploded around him and he couldn't see Sam and he couldn't feel Jake and he wasn't lying on the cold stone ground and he wasn't in pain and he wasn't breathing and he wasn't anywhere or anything or anybody.

For what felt like the span of endless time there was no sensation.

And then just as suddenly as it departed, it returned, and he felt _everything_.

Every heady rush, every wound, every happy moment, every heartbreak, every laugh, every sob, every moment of anger, every moment of peace.

He began to scream. He couldn't stop. Air suddenly had texture, weight. It folded around him, pressing into him with the pain of thousands of tiny knife points. He screamed as the world fell in. Screamed as he was crushed by time. Screamed as he fell.

When he hit the earth he was sobbing, drinking in great gasps of air and choking on it. His body trembled uncontrollably. He tried to open his eyes but they felt swollen, beaten, bruised. He could taste the salt of tears mixed with dirt on his lips.

He tried to speak, to call out. _Where's Sam?_

Panic rose, bright and sharp, in his heart as he forced his eyes open, desperate to see his brother.

Instead he found himself peering at the face of a child; gray eyes blinking owlishly at him, dirt streaking a pug nose.

"You fell," the child whispered in a strangled, fearful voice. "You fell from the sky."

And Dean sank into the waiting arms of oblivion.

* * *

**a/n: **Since in later seasons we know that time-travel-by-angel is indeed possible and therefore canon, I'm gambling on you accepting time-travel-by-demonic-ritual as plausible. If you do, I think you'll be entertained. If not, well, that's okay, too. Dean's freaky-assed dream is courtesy of my good friend **ThruTerry'sEyes** and her own very bizarre dreams. Don't get her started.

I'd love to know what you think. Next chapter may be posted a smidge early as I have to travel to CA for work next week and Monday could get sketchy.

It's going to start getting a bit rougher for the brothers….

**Playlist**:

Boston, _Don't Look Back_

_*This is going to be a music-light story for the most part._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1.

**a/n**: Thanks for coming back! I have been trying to carve out time for the last two days to post this but a combination of RL commitments and post-finale-emotional-basketcase-ness delayed me. But! It's still a day earlier than when I'd promised to post, so that's good, right? *blinks with an innocent smile*

As we move forward into the next chapters, those of you who are fans of Westerns may recognize some things such as a character name or cadence of a scene. I wanted to pay homage to some of my personal favorites, and I was also honoring a request from the lady to whom this story is dedicated: Kelly.

I hope you enjoy this next part!

* * *

_"Tomorrow is the most important thing in life. Comes into us at midnight very clean. It's perfect when it arrives and it puts itself in our hands. It hopes we've learned something from yesterday." _

_~ Inscription on John Wayne's tombstone_

_www_

_Sulfur Springs, Texas 1870_

He felt hands on his face.

Small hands, the fingers lightly stroking the vulnerable skin just beneath his eyes. Something about the touch had him sinking once more, falling inside the black, slipping just to the edge of consciousness when he realized he could hear humming.

With effort, Dean opened his eyes.

The hands fell away. He blinked slowly, feeling the motion reverberate through his skull, grit weaving the edges of his lashes together. His mind felt as if it were wrapped in fog, not quite engaged. The only thing he could really register was that it was night and he was lying on something soft.

"Wh-who's…there?" he croaked, the sound painful.

He tried to turn his head, needing to determine where he was, but the hands stopped him.

"Shhh…"

"Where am—"

"Hush a minute." The voice was soft, young, but commanding. "And don't move yet. You're gonna mess up all my work."

"W-work?" Dean swallowed, feeling as though someone had scraped the inside of his throat with an ice cream scoop.

There was something he should know, should do…something _big_, but time was missing and pain had filled the gap.

The hands were moving again. Touching, shifting, feather-light but at the same time too heavy. As if suddenly registering awareness, the various wounds on his body chose that moment to stand up and be counted. His neck ached—a specific bite that told him he'd been cut somewhere—and his side was on fire. His whole body felt as though he'd attempted to pile-drive himself into the ground.

And then he remembered.

He remembered screaming.

"Where's…Sam?" He tried to roll, to sit up, to lift his head. The small hands stopped him too easily.

"Stop it, now," the voice commanded gently. "Just wait until I change the dressing."

"Dressing?"

His small-handed healer sighed. "You musta hit some stuff on your way out."

"Out? Out…of what?"

His eyes searched the darkness around him for the source of the voice. His thoughts were jumbled fragments of disjointed memories, partially-drawn conclusions, and flashes of an impossible reality with only one thing cutting a clean line through the maze: Sam's panicked voice calling his name before the world exploded.

"I g-gotta get to m-my brother…."

Dean worked to roll once more to his side but found that his body was held in some sort of canvas sling making the motion difficult if not impossible. A frown puckering his brow, he felt along the edges of the contraption and as pain returned clarity to his cob-webbed thoughts, he realized he was on some sort of cot.

"Hey!" he called out weakly. "Where am I?"

A face appeared in his field of vision, a slash of swaying, yellowish light cutting across the delicate features. _Gray eyes…pug nose…_. "Do…do I know you?"

Quick flashes of bright light burst at the corners of his vision, causing him to close his eyes and shake his head, working to rid himself of the disorienting images, the memory of screaming, of the world folding around him, the weight of air crushing him….

"I'm Bird," the child said, a quick smile revealing mis-matched teeth—the front two too big for the baby teeth that flanked them, one missing from the lower ranks. "You probably know me as Hannah, though."

"Hannah," Dean repeated, slowly, as if trying the name on for size. He had never met a Hannah—certainly not one this age. "I-I don't…."

"I hope I wasn't supposed to help other one," she frowned, dipping her chin and dropping all but her gray eyes from the beam of light. "He was scary."

"Other one?" Dean tried once more to push himself up, unsuccessfully. "Where'd he go?"

Bird shrugged. "I tried to pull him in after Sentenza and I grabbed you, but he just...jumped up and started yellin' something and just…ran off."

"Tall guy?" Dean pressed. "Kinda floppy hair?"

Bird shook her head. "Kinda short and…round. Old. Gray hair."

It took him a beat, but the recognition swam upward. The only thing missing from her description was the madness in the eyes of the man whose image was burned onto the back of Dean's eyes like a negative.

_Jake…._ Dean surmised. _Where the hell is Sam? _

He slid his stiff legs off the side of the cot, one after the other.

"Do you remember falling?" Bird asked.

_You fell…you fell from the sky._ "Falling?"

"Out of Heaven," Bird continued, her head tilting to the side, the light hitting half of her face. "I got to thinkin'…maybe you were watching me, y'know, real close-like. And tipped over too far or something…."

"Kid," Dean croaked, realization finally dawning. "I'm not an…an angel."

Bird blinked and backed up so that she was completely out of the beam of light. If Dean couldn't hear her breathing, he'd have thought she vanished.

"You…you ain't?"

The disappointment in her voice had him wanting to suck in his words, lie to her, tell her what she wanted to hear. "Sorry," he said softly, hearing his own regret at the choice of honesty. "Just a guy," he groaned, finally able to rise up onto his elbow, then slowly push himself into a slouched seated position.

"How…how'd you fall, then?" Bird asked, suddenly sounding as young as she had appeared in his limited glimpses of her.

Dean reached up and touched the base of his neck, near his left collar bone. He felt a loose bandage covering the biting sting of a cut there, the piece of material wrapping around his neck like a soft noose. He remembered Jake's knife separating his skin as the older hunter chanted what he'd mistakenly thought to be meaningless Latin.

"Still trying to work that out," he breathed, gingerly touching the skin around the bandage. A slick paste was smeared along his throat and the exposed area of his chest, disappearing beneath the bandage. "What's…all this…goop?"

The soft light—a lantern he now realized—swept forward and he caught sight of the little girl's profile as she leaned close. Her dark hair was close-cropped, and the dirt on her cheek appearing almost purposeful, as if she were attempting a disguise. She held the lantern aloft in her right hand and reached out, gently shooing his fingers away and adjusted the edge of the bandage.

"Some aloe for the pain. Catnip, lavender, Echinacea for infection. Marigold and myrrh—"

"Myrrh? As in…the three wise men?"

Bird glanced at him sharply. "You sure you ain't an angel?"

"Hannah—"

"Bird," she corrected, her smoky eyes almost angry.

"Bird, I'm about as far from an angel as you can get."

She arched an eyebrow with such adult-like skepticism he would have laughed if his head wasn't spinning. "You mean you're a devil?"

"No," Dean sighed. "I'm not…listen," he sagged a bit further on the canvas cot, "my name is Dean."

"So if you ain't an angel…what are you?"

"I'm a—" A thousand words fell into that gap of silence. _Soldier. Brother. Son. Survivor. Hunter_. "I hunt things."

She narrowed her eyes. "Without no guns?"

Dean matched her expression. "What do you know about guns?"

"Probably more'n you," she shot back, leaning over him to hang the lantern on some kind of nail above his head.

Dean could smell the fuel and the fire; it was distinctive, familiar. All that was lacking was the dusty taste of rock salt in the air. He ran his tongue across his lower lip, registering that he _did_ taste something: dirt. Dirt was everywhere around him, he realized now. Dusting his hands, the cot, grinding against the hard, wooden surface where his boots rested. Dirt and…_was that hay?_

"Why does it smell so bad in here?" he wondered aloud.

"What does?" Bird asked, sinking back to her heels.

He straightened slightly, looking around. The lantern now illuminated more than just the face of his healer. Low-slung walls and thick support beams flanked them. And on the ground beneath Bird's worn boots there was, indeed, hay.

_A barn…_he realized. _I'm in a barn._

Pulling himself taller, his face now level with Bird's, Dean looked down at his body. His shirt was in tatters; the bandages covering the stitches Sam had laced into his skin were dirt-smeared. The legs of his jeans were shredded. The only things still intact were his worn, brown boots. He looked as if he'd tangled with a windmill.

And lost.

"Bird," he said, strength returning to his voice. "Where are we?"

"Sentenza's barn," she replied immediately.

Dean swallowed. "And...who's Sentenza?"

"He works for Mr. Frost. He protects me. He don't talk, though. Sentenza, not Mr. Frost. Mr. Frost don't shut up. And he's not from 'round here so, his words sound all funny—"

"Bird," Dean interrupted, working to find his way through the maze of thoughts, the hedgerows of information flowing from this child halting him at every turn. _How did I get into a barn? Why did she think I fell? Why the hell do I freakin' _hurt_ so bad? _

_And where the hell is Sam?_

"This is going to sound really…strange, but…is there like…an old church nearby?"

Bird frowned, crossed one arm over her belly, and reached up to scratch at the dirt smear on her cheek. "Y'know, if you being an angel is a secret and all 'cause you don't have no wings anymore, I can keep a secret."

Dean closed his eyes, reaching up to rub at his forehead, the swiftly-healing slices from the Daeva's claws the only thing that didn't hurt at the moment. "I promise…I'm no angel. I just…the last time I saw my brother was in this old church."

"Well," Bird sighed as if giving her answer some thought. "There's no church in Sulfur Springs. They tried with the schoolhouse, but Ivers ran off the preacher when I was a kid. But there's the Mission."

"Mission, yes!" Dean opened his eyes and pointed at her. "San something…."

"San Jose de Valero," she replied, the Spanish inflection rolling from her tongue with ease.

"That's the one." Dean pressed a hand to his aching side. The burn was almost impossible to ignore.

"It's just on the other side of the paddock area. But it ain't really all that old."

Dean closed his eyes again, the jumble of his memories playing bumper cars in his brain. _What had Leo said Jake had been up to?_ He rubbed at the back of his neck, wanting to ease the tightness there, and trying to figure out why he couldn't get the image of Christopher Lloyd's Dr. Emmett Brown out of his head.

"Your head hurtin'?"

"You might say that," Dean muttered.

"Hang on," Bird said.

Eyes closed, Dean eased back until he rested against the rough-hewn wood on what he now realized was the wall of a stall. The smell was manure, he surmised, but the absence of animals was curious.

"Here," Bird said, her voice slightly breathless. "Drink this." She shoved a small, warm tin cup into the hand he'd rested on his lap.

"What is it?" He asked dubiously.

"Catnip and mint tea," she replied. "Don't taste all that good, but it'll help with the pain. Probably make you sleepy, though."

"How do you know all this, kid?"

Dean opened one eye, regarding the slip of a girl standing before him: a too-big, long-sleeved brown shirt rolled up to her elbows and exposing thin, fragile wrists, suspenders holding up graying cotton pants with cuffs shoved into the top of laced-up brown boots. She stood with her hip cocked to the side, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other up, fingers twisting absentmindedly in a lock of thick, dark hair short enough to resemble a boy's cut. In fact, he would have been willing to swear that Bird was indeed a boy were it not for her eyes.

"My Mama," she replied, her expression turning wistful. "She's a healer. She had her own garden. Ranchers came from miles around for her to fix 'em up. She was teaching me before Ivers came. Sentenza helped me move the plants here."

The words came at him like bullets, foreign names and phrases that didn't connect with his version of reality and made him want to get up and walk away. Instead, he sipped the foul-tasting tea.

"Who's Ivers?"

He gasped as the tea slipped down his scream-raw throat, leaving a path of solace in its wake. He felt the tightness in his chest and neck ease. He continued to drink until the cup was empty and the tension in his body began to seep from the ends of his fingers, dissipating with each blink of his eyes.

"He's a bastard," Bird said, the bitterness in her voice sending a slight shock through Dean's rapidly-numbing system. "I don't really know what it means, but that's what Mama called him and she knows stuff. He came into town one day a long time ago and tried to be the boss of everyone, but my Papa didn't like him so he said no."

Dean tried to focus on Bird's face, feeling his body slide slowly down the wall as the healing agents in the tea took hold. The little girl reached over and helped ease him back down on the cot, continuing to talk as she did so.

"He came to our ranch about three weeks ago," she said, her voice softening. She picked up Dean's legs and set them on the foot of the cot. "He killed my Papa, took Mama and my big brother, Rory, and left."

"He left you?" Dean asked, feeling the weight of his tongue as he worked to form the words.

"I was hidin'," she confessed, looking away. "He didn't even see me. I buried Papa, but…well, he needed words said over his grave, so…I came here for help. Sentenza's been hiding me from Ivers ever since."

"Jesus," Dean slurred. "How old are you, kid?"

Bird frowned. "I forget," she said, tilting her head again. "I was born a couple years before the war, and that's been done for about five years now—"

"Wh-what…war?" Dean asked, feeling an answer to a question he hadn't thought to ask slip through his weakening grasp.

Bird gave him a bemused glance. "The war between the states," she replied.

_War between the…oh, fuck me…._

"You musta hit your head pretty hard when you _didn't_ fall outta Heaven," Bird muttered, reaching for the lantern.

_Lantern…barn…Mission isn't old…_

"Bird," Dean reached up and caught her arm in a clumsy grip to grab her attention. "What was the name of this place?"

"Huh?"

"This town," Dean forced out, his lips rebelling. He could barely keep his eyes open.

"Sulfur Springs," Bird replied, blowing out the flame from the lantern and pitching them into the dark.

_A ritual…for time travel_.

"Oh, shit," Dean breathed, his eyes falling closed. "Sammy…."

www

"Easy, take it easy now."

The words were familiar, but the voice wasn't. Neither was the hand on his back.

_Maybe Dean had a point about us not being normal…I shouldn't know the weight of my brother's hand_.

"'M okay," Sam managed to gasp out as the he gripped the sides of a large wooden bucket.

"Oh, that I can see," replied the not-so-familiar voice. The voice that had told him to open his eyes. The voice that had said everything was fine. The voice that had lied to him. "I'm usually okay after I throw up a few vital organs."

Sam sank back away from the bucket, falling hard to his rear and dropping his head back against the wall. The world was spinning and he was rolling along with it, unable to grip onto anything solid, real, despite the rough-hewn wood of the floor he sat upon and the clean smell of the linen draped on the bed next to him. He kept his eyes closed, flattening his hands on either side of him.

"Tell me again," he demanded.

"Uh, you sure? 'Cause I don't have another bucket."

The voice held the rounded tones of an East-coast accent.

"Just, _tell me_."

"Okay…I woke up when I heard the crash. Came outside and you were...well, you were lying on the ground—"

"And the other guy?" Sam gasped, not yet daring to open his eyes, willing his equilibrium to balance out as he pressed his hands hard against the floor. He felt sweat gathering on his upper lip and back of his neck.

"Yeah," the voice sighed, "he was a mess."

"You sure he's dead?"

"I'm sure, kid."

Sam felt his face fold in, his lips pulling low as his chin trembled. A cry of denial boiled from his belly and he felt his lungs stretch to contain it. _He can't be dead_, Sam thought, shaking his head once, twice. _He can't die thinking I'm ready to leave._

"Kid?"

"M-my…my name is Sam." The words leaked through teeth clenched against emotion. He wouldn't cry, not now, not yet. Not until he killed the bastards responsible. "I need to see him."

"Open your eyes again first," the voice demanded.

"Why?"

"So I can see if you have a concussion."

That got Sam's attention. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling the grit at the edges work to seal his lashes together. Reaching up with a clumsy, sweaty hand, he swiped at them, triggering a resurgence of the burn of tears.

"How would you know if—" Sam started, then closed his mouth with a click.

The man crouched in front of him looked to be a few years older than Dean and had a long, narrow face, wide hazel eyes, and brown hair that seemed insistent on sticking up in a soft pseudo-Mohawk giving him an appearance of youth the lines around his eyes denied. He wore brown pants held up with suspenders over a collarless white shirt and around his neck Sam saw an ancient stethoscope.

Sam blinked as the man held a lit candle up close to one eye and then the other, nodding to himself.

"Your pupils appear reactive," he said, his wide mouth twisting into a contemplative frown. "And those scratches on your cheek are way too healed to be from whatever happened to you last night."

"Yeah, they're from—" Sam closed his mouth once more, horrified that he'd nearly let honesty slip through lips trained to lie.

The man cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips. "Your inability to complete a sentence could be latent trauma from your…fall, or whatever landed you on my doorstep."

Shaking his head, Sam started to push himself to his feet when his body suddenly screamed in protest to such an extent that he gasped. He hurt _everywhere_. And it wasn't just from emptying his stomach into a bucket.

"What the hell happened?" he groaned, resting a hand on his ribs and rubbing gently at the back of his neck.

"See, I've been spending the better part of the night attempting to figure out that very thing," the man commented. "Name's Zeke, by the way."

Sam squinted at the hand thrust out to him: long, tapered fingers, soft, uncalloused palms. He reached back and took the hand, noting the strength in the grip.

"Zeke McAdams," Zeke continued, shaking Sam's hand once and releasing it. "Ezekiel, really, but that was more my mother's idea than mine. Bit too pretentious for Texas, don't you think?"

"Uh…yeah," Sam replied, blinking quickly to keep his vision from blurring as he stared at the man.

The sour taste at the back of his mouth was starting to burn across his tongue as his mind tried to weave through the maze of nothing mixed with memories of bright, blinding light, screams of unmitigated pain, and then a man sitting before him using words like _pretentious_ while Dean….

He was going to be sick again.

"Whoa, okay, easy, now," Zeke soothed, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder as Sam closed his eyes against the wave of nausea. "Just breathe, okay? In through your nose, out through—"

"I know the drill," Sam snapped, feeling the sickness fade. "You got a drink?"

"Well, I got water and I got whiskey," Zeke told him, dropping his hand. "The whiskey's better."

"Fine," Sam said, cautiously pulling his head away from the wall.

"You stay put," Zeke ordered, standing up and taking the candle with him.

The gray fingers of dawn worked through a bare window off to Sam's right and turned his surroundings into a black and white image.

Sam looked around the small room and frowned. It was bare except a wrought iron bed, a dresser with a warped mirror atop it and an old-fashioned basin and pitcher combination. The floor was made up of wide, rough-hewn boards. Looking down at himself, Sam saw that his jeans were torn to the point of indecency and his T-shirt was shredded as if he'd been mauled. Lifting the scraps of fabric, though, he couldn't see a mark on the skin of his belly or chest.

Nothing that would explain why he felt as if he'd jumped from a plane without a parachute. He tried once more to push himself to his feet, but Zeke's return had him reaching instead for the two-fingered shot of whiskey in the wide-mouth glass.

"Ah ah! Slowly!" Zeke admonished as Sam tossed back a swallow.

The liquor burned fire through his mouth, down his raw throat and started to coat the hollow place in his chest where his heart used to reside. Hissing a bit in reaction, Sam ignored Zeke's protests and swallowed the rest. The shock of alcohol on his weakened system had him blinking away a different kind of tears and looking around himself with clearer vision.

"Where the hell am I?" he gasped.

"Back of my saloon," Zeke replied.

"Your…saloon?" Sam asked, gaping at the man. _Not bar, not pub…saloon? Who says _saloon_ anymore?_

Zeke flicked the stethoscope and nodded a bit sheepishly. "Yeah, the doctor getup," he sighed, sinking back on his heels and looking toward the window as sunlight began to grip the land. "I was a different person in Boston. But, uh…I left the doctor back there."

"And…now you own a bar?" Sam asked, trying to work out how he'd ended up in a room at the back of a bar when, before the world exploded, he'd been standing in an old Spanish Mission fighting a hunter for possession of his shotgun.

Zeke looked puzzled. "Well, yeah, there's a bar here. And tables and a piano, and—"

Sam closed his eyes and waved a hand at the man. "Forget it. Help me up."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, just gimme a hand," Sam grumbled.

Zeke took Sam's glass and set it aside, then with one hand gripping Sam's and another at Sam's waist, he worked to lift them both to their feet. Zeke held on as Sam swayed, gravity deciding to exhibit its power.

"You okay?" Zeke said softly.

"Just…need a minute," Sam breathed, reaching out a trembling hand to brace himself against the wall. "Where's my—" He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"I put him in the back room," Zeke said, following Sam's thinking. "I'll get Pritchett in a couple hours. He's not really a morning person."

"Pritchett?" Sam repeated, finding his balance and moving away from Zeke.

"Town undertaker," Zeke clarified. "Also owns the general store."

Sam stared at the man. It was as if he was speaking another language. He rubbed the back of his head. "I think maybe I do have a concussion," Sam muttered.

"Come on," Zeke turned and led Sam toward a door.

Stepping from the small bedroom into what appeared to be a storage room, Sam felt chills crawl along his exposed skin. A waist-high table made up of a door and two saw-horses sat in the middle of the room lit only by the ambient light from the uncovered window. On top of the table lay a body.

Sam stopped breathing, moving forward with hesitant, fragile steps. His legs were made of glass, his body trembling atop them. It wasn't until he stood just beyond the foot of the body that he registered what he was seeing wasn't what he'd expected to see.

"It's Leo," he breathed, feeling his knees almost disappear. A hand was at his elbow and Sam absorbed the strength until he was able to once again stand on his own. "It's _Leo_," he repeated with something akin to glee in his voice, looking at Zeke. "It's not Dean!"

"Who's Dean?" Zeke asked.

"My brother," Sam grinned, feeling a burble of near-hysterical laughter bounce up around his words. "My stubborn jerk of a brother." He wanted to jump, run, hug Zeke. _Dean isn't dead! Leo is!_ "Oh, man, though." Sam sobered, turning back to the body. _Dean isn't dead. Leo is. And Dean...isn't _here. "How'd it…happen?"

Zeke moved up to Leo's head, frowning down at the still, blue-tinged face. "Pretty sure he broke his neck when you…when whatever happened to you…happened."

Sam looked around the room, seeing the shelves of liquor bottles and cans with antique labels. Only…. He stepped closer, peering. They weren't exactly _antique_ labels.

They were brand new.

"Zeke?" Sam asked, picking up a can of potatoes and staring sightlessly at the label. _The __suprachiasmatic nucleas controls the body's biological clock_…. "Where… where are we?"

"I named it _The Beacon_ after where I grew up in Beacon Hill. 'Cause y'know, you can never really get rid of your childhood home, no matter how far—"

"No, not the…the saloon," Sam interrupted, feeling himself sink inside as understanding finally clawed free of the fog of pain and confusion and the blinding heartbreak at the thought of his brother's death.

_Jake, Max, and I…tortured and exorcised a demon about a month ago…so that we could get the elements of a ritual from it…a ritual for time travel._

The memory of Leo's words hit Sam with the impact of a fist and he felt himself stagger, reaching for a shelf for balance. "What's…what's the date?"

"Uh, the 15th, I thi—"

"The _year_!" Sam snapped, replacing the can.

Zeke's voice retreated a bit and Sam heard the man take a shuffling step back. "It's 1870, Sam."

"Holy…shiiiiit." Sam breathed out the word, leaning forward and pressing his forehead hard against the wooden shelf, the scent of alcohol and dust assaulting his nostrils.

"What is it?" Zeke asked, his voice hardening. "What happened to you, Sam?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Sam said to the shelves.

He heard Zeke sigh. "Last night, I pulled in a strange kid wearing strange—completely destroyed—clothes and a dead man into my…well, where I'm living. I have no idea where you came from—looks like you dropped from the sky, to be honest."

Sam rolled his forehead against the shelf, turning to look at Zeke. "It's crazy," he warned.

"I run a saloon in the middle of Sulfur Springs, Texas, kid," Zeke replied, dropping his chin and leveling his eyes on Sam's. "Believe me. I know crazy."

Sam swallowed and stepped away from the shelf, facing Zeke. "Last night, _I _was standing in San Jose de Valero with my brother trying to stop three guys from…making a very big mistake."

_Three…and one is here, dead, with me…where the hell is Dean? Are Jake and Max out there somewhere? Am I the only the only one that—_

Zeke lifted a shoulder. "The Mission? That's just outside of town. Those guys jump you or someth—"

"I was standing in the Mission…in 2005."

"Two thousand five…what?"

"In the _year_ 2005," Sam pressed. As Zeke blinked blank-faced at him, Sam continued, pointing to Leo's body. "He's one of the guys. I was fighting with…." He stopped talking, realization dawning. "I was fighting with Leo, but _Dean_ was with _Jake_…nearest the altar! If I'm here, he's gotta be here…I bet he's still at the Mission!"

"He who? Who what? Slow down!" Zeke flung up his hands. "Just _slow down_ a goddamned minute!"

Sam swallowed, watching the man work to wrap his mind around the facts Sam had just tossed his way.

"You're telling me…you're from…the _future_?"

Sam looked down, nodding.

Zeke stared at him, his eyes wide and blank. "So…there's _now_, and then there's a hundred and," he bounced the tips of his fingers against his thumb, counting silently, "thirty-five years and then…there's _you_?"

Sam swallowed. "Basically, yeah."

"But…how?"

"I can't tell you," Sam said softly. "I've probably already told you too much as it is."

"Are you insane?" Zeke bleated. "You haven't even scratched the surface of too much!"

Sam stepped forward, earnest in his need to make Zeke understand. Zeke stepped back, putting Leo's body between them.

"Listen," Sam implored. "I _can't_ tell you everything, okay? I don't know what it might…do to you to know more. I look like this," he gestured to his ruined clothes, "because I kinda _did_ fall out of the sky."

"Son of a…," Zeke muttered, moving around the table holding Leo's body and grabbing a bottle of amber liquid. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and pressed his lips to the opening, drinking deeply. Sam watched in slight amazement as Zeke swallowed three times before pulling the bottle away. "…bitch," he finished, breathlessly.

"I told you it was crazy," Sam offered lamely.

Zeke swiped his arm across his mouth and looked at Sam. "You get points for honesty, kid." He stared at Sam a moment longer. "Why should I believe you?"

"You come up with any other reason for why I look like I do? Where I came from?" Sam challenged.

"You jumped off a late-night stage," Zeke tried. "Only…there _is_ no late-night stage. Wait! You were jumped by Indians and they dumped you here…even though there haven't been any Indians around Sulfur Springs since Ivers came to town." He paced in a tight four-step pattern near Leo's head. "I've got it! It's so obvious! You were up in one of Stella's rooms and her girls threw you out of the window."

"Your explanation is that I fell out a window?"

Zeke thrust out his jaw stubbornly.

"What about Leo?" Sam asked, tilting his head.

Dropping his chin, Zeke reached up and rubbed his face, the motion admitting defeat. "The _future_, though? I mean…you have to admit it's pretty farfetched."

"Look, I'll tell you as much as I can," Sam promised, "but I gotta find my brother."

"How do you know he's here?" Zeke challenged.

Sam shrugged, a lead weight in the pit of his belly. "I don't know for sure."

"How do you know he's not dead like this poor bastard?" Zeke pressed.

Sam felt the blood drain from his face.

"Oh, hey," Zeke set the bottle down on the edge of the shelf and took a step forward. "Hey, kid, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"ZEKE!"

The bellow came from another room followed by the slam of a door and made both Sam and Zeke jump. Zeke let his head fall back with a groan. "This is just not my day."

"ZEKE! Get the hell out here, you drunk bastard!"

Sam's brows met over the bridge of his nose and he looked toward the sound of the voice. "Who is that?"

"Graham Ivers," Zeke sighed.

"Put the fuckin' bottle down, and roll that skinny ass out here!" The voice was clipped, insistent, entitled.

Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn't realize his hands had curled into fists until he felt Zeke's hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay," Zeke said. "You stay here; I got this. You'll find some extra clothes in the suitcase under the bed in the other room. I never got around to unpacking."

"You sure?" Sam asked, tossing Zeke's favorite question back at him.

"I can handle a bully like Ivers," Zeke nodded, looking at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. "It's the kid that fell out of the future I'm having trouble with."

"He called you a drunk," Sam said, surprised to feel his lips curling up in a snarl.

"Yeah, well…a drunk makes a better saloon owner than doctor," Zeke explained as he stepped out into what Sam could see was the main room of the saloon.

Left alone with Leo's body, Sam gave the older hunter an apologetic glance. The older man's face was unmarked, his clothes mirroring the time-travel carnage the same as Sam's. There wasn't any blood, any obvious signs of trauma. Stepping closer, Sam tilted his head, wondering why Leo had been broken and he was spare. Hesitantly, he reached out, running his fingers along the side and back of Leo's head, then froze when he reached the man's neck.

The bone there jutted beneath the skin at a horrible angle. Sam swallowed. He'd survived by chance, pure chance. And he'd been found by someone with the instinct to help.

_Dean…._

What if Dean hadn't been so lucky? He'd been at the epicenter of the spell—Jake had been _gripping_ Dean's arm. If Sam was here...and Leo was here...there's not way that Dean was not here. The question was...had he survived the journey as Sam had, or was he lying on someone else's make-shift table? Closing his eyes, Sam easily recalled the desperate terror on his brother's face as he ordered Sam to _go!_

And then the world had turned into a lightning bolt.

He shivered, turning away from Leo's body and hurried into the bedroom to find Zeke's extra clothes. As he stripped out of his ruined jeans and shirt, he was thankful to still have his own boots as Zeke's polished, black, ankle-high shoes were about two sizes too small. He twisted stiffly, looking at as much of his body as he could, checking for bruising, marks, anything. The way he felt he was sure there would be signs of trauma on his body somehow, but all he saw were the faded scars of his past snaking across the pale skin of his sides, lower back, and inner thighs.

Keeping his own boxers on, he pulled on the one piece underwear and cotton, collar-less, button-up shirt before finding a pair of brown pants that matched the ones he'd seen on Zeke. It took him a moment to adjust the suspenders, but once he was done he saw in the wavering reflection of the mirror above the washbasin stand that he could have easily passed for Zeke's younger brother. Rolling his still-aching neck, Sam balled up his ruined, twentieth-century clothes and stuffed them under Zeke's bed, then made his way through the back storage room, past Leo, and to the door Zeke had walked through.

Cracking the door slightly, Sam looked through, finding Zeke, his back to him. The man identified as Graham Ivers was leaning against an impressively long, polished wooden bar, a foot resting on a brass runner down near the floor, and a glass of whiskey clutched in his fingers. He was dressed completely in black, his hat tipped to the back of his head, black leather gloves covering his hands. Sam could see pockmark scars on his cheek and a crescent-shaped scar on his neck.

"Dude, it's like… six in the morning," Sam whispered. "Pot or kettle?"

"Told you I'd be by at dawn," Ivers was saying. "I don't mess around."

"No, Sir, I know that," Zeke placated, "but he's not here. Hasn't been back for days."

"I got two new hands coming in today, Zeke," Ivers informed him, tossing back the finger of whiskey. "I don't want trouble from that priest. You get him out of town on the next stage, or he's mine. You get me?"

Zeke nodded vigorously. "I get you."

Ivers set the glass down with a heavy _thunk_, then turned from the bar, his gaze ghosting across the cracked door. Sam knew he stood enough in the shadows that he couldn't be seen, but something on the man's swarthy face caught him and Sam shivered. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw Ivers' dark eyes slip completely black before the man turned away.

Pulling his hat down low over his eyes, Ivers adjusted his coat. Sam bit the inside of his cheek, thankful for the moment that Dean wasn't standing next to him, knowing the crack his brother would make at the expense of Ivers' swagger.

"Next stage, Zeke," Ivers repeated, then stepped out through the door of the saloon, letting it slam behind him.

Sam stepped into the main room as Zeke picked up the glass Ivers had used and threw it into a box on the floor. The sound of shattering glass met Sam's ears as he leaned against the bar.

"You got something against washing?" Sam asked.

Zeke snarled, his lips curling up to expose his upper teeth. "Everything that man touches is poisoned," he replied. "If I hadn't spent everything I had on this saloon, I would've left a long time ago."

"So, what? He the sheriff or something?"

Zeke huffed, not taking his eyes from the closed door. "No. That would be Dawson."

"He can't do anything about Ivers?"

Zeke looked over and Sam felt his stomach clench at the fury he saw lying dormant in the man's eyes. "Why should he? Ivers pays him too damn well."

Sam looked down, nodding.

"You hungry?" Zeke asked suddenly.

Sam shook his head. "I don't think I could eat," he confessed, pressing his hand gingerly against his stomach.

"You said you think your brother is up at the Mission?" Zeke asked.

Sam brought his head up quickly. "That's the last place I saw him."

"Get your coat," Zeke said, moving around to the end of the bar. "I gotta go find me a priest."

"I, uh…I didn't find a coat," Sam shrugged.

"Oh, right," Zeke frowned. "Wait here."

As Zeke disappeared into the back room, Sam looked around the saloon, marveling at the sight.

_Dean would really like this place_.

A smattering of small tables with rounded-backed chairs flanked a small, slightly raised stage with a piano atop it. Sam saw a cluster of green, felt-covered poker tables on the other side of the bar clustered near the base of a staircase. The swinging saloon doors were latched back against the wall, flanking the heavier door that Ivers had slammed closed behind him, and on either side of the door, stretching wide enough that Sam could see the town waking up around him, were two multi-paned windows, the words _The Beacon_ painted in red and green on the glass.

Everything look worn and used and yet strangely new at the same time.

The saloon seemed to be positioned on a corner of the town's main streets, and as Sam approached the windows, he saw that to one side was a barn with the word _Livery_ painted across the top and on the other side of the saloon was a white-washed building boasting a clean room and bath for five cents a night. Down the street from the Livery, Sam could see the General Store, the Sulfur Springs _Sentinel_, a bank, and what looked like it might've been a schoolhouse.

"Here," Zeke said from behind him. "You can keep it."

Sam turned and took the proffered coat. It was blue, made of heavy wool with faded brass buttons; patches of darker material were on the arm and shoulder. A soldier's coat.

"1870," Sam whispered to himself, turning the coat over in his hand as he realized the significance of the time period. "You fought in the Civil War?"

Zeke shot him a puzzled glance. "The what?"

Thinking quickly, history class lectures from various schools swimming in his head, Sam corrected, "The, uh, war between the states."

Zeke shrugged into a long, brown duster, his frown answering for him.

"At least you were on the winning side," Sam offered.

Zeke pinned him with a look. "Nobody wins when a country fights herself, kid."

Nodding humbly, Sam pulled on the coat. Devoid of military insignia, it became relatively non-descript once on.

"Is that where you learned how to be a doctor?" Sam asked.

Zeke shook his head. "I was already a doctor," he replied, pulling on a dirty, off-white, wide-brimmed hat. "That's where I learned how to drink. We'll have to find you a hat somewhere else. I only got the one."

"I don't need a hat," Sam replied.

Zeke lifted an eyebrow. "They still got sun in 2005?"

Sam frowned. "Uh, yeah."

"Believe me, kid," Zeke chuckled. "You're gonna want a hat. Come on."

"Wait—" Sam put a hand on Zeke's arm. "What about Leo?"

Zeke cocked and eyebrow at him. "I don't think he's going anywhere."

"But what if someone comes in?"

"I told Stella I was going after Pritchett," Zeke opened the heavy door and Sam blinked at the dust blowing in.

"Who's Stella?"

"She runs the brothel," Zeke said. "I run the bar."

Shooting a look over his shoulder as he followed Zeke out into the cool morning, Sam squeaked, "Brothel?"

_Scratch that, Dean would _love_ this place._

"Gotta give the men someone to drink with," Zeke shrugged, heading across the street.

"Wait up." Sam jogged to keep in step with the other man.

The road was rutted and dusty, boardwalks surrounding each building and running along the edge of the adjoining streets. From the corner of his eyes Sam could see blinds being raised and doors opening as the town came alive. As the sound of his own voice seemed to echo off the buildings, it struck him at how quiet it was.

No ambient noise, no traffic sounds, no hum of electricity providing a forgotten undercurrent to the soundtrack of a town—even a small town like Maera.

_Wait…Zeke hadn't called it Maera._

"Zeke," Sam called as they paused to allow a wagon to pass. Mouth open, his eyes followed the sight of the dusty, tired-looking man sitting slouched on an uncomfortable-looking wooden seat, worn leather reins lax in his dirt-crusted hands as two black horses plodded their way across the grooved dirt street, harness chains jingling with each step.

"It's called a wa-gon," Zeke said.

Sam narrowed his eyes at the saloon owner. "Funny. Remind me to tell you about—" Sam stopped himself. "Forget it. Listen, what did you say the town was called?"

"Sulfur Springs."

"Not Maera?"

Zeke lifted an eyebrow. "There's a ranch outside of town—not too far from the Mission, actually—that was owned by a Tom _O'_Maera. Until Ivers had him killed," he said. "But…no, the town is named Sulfur Springs."

They continued across the street. "What for?"

"What for what?" Zeke replied.

"Why is it named Sulfur Springs?" Sam pressed, frowning dubiously as they vectored toward the Livery.

"I guess 'cause there were springs of sulfur around here at some point. I never bothered to ask," Zeke said. "I just got off the stage here because I was too drunk to ride anymore and it turned out there was a saloon for sale."

They passed through the wide, opened door way of the Livery, the smell of manure, oats, alfalfa, leather and sweat wafting over them. Zeke took a deep breath. Sam wrinkled his nose.

"What are we doing here?"

"Getting my horse. Do you always ask so many questions?" Zeke shot him a look.

"Horse?" Sam felt his stomach tighten.

"How did you think we were going to get to the Mission?"

"Walk?" Sam offered.

_How did I get so far away from where I started? Was I…blasted here by the spell? _

_Was I even supposed to be caught in the spell? _

He stopped next to the first stall and leaned for a moment, his body not enjoying the demands of movement, muscles still tender from his flight through time. He closed his eyes, remembering the horrifying sight of Jake sitting astride Dean, cutting into his brother's neck as he chanted a Latin phrase Sam couldn't begin to recall.

_How are we gonna get home?_

"Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam opened his eyes to find Zeke's hazel ones peering at him intently. "I'm okay."

"If you can't do this, I'll—"

"I can do it."

Zeke frowned.

"I gotta find my brother, Zeke," Sam pressed. "I can do this."

"What if he's out looking for you?"

"Then we'll find each other," Sam replied confidently.

Zeke nodded, then moved away from Sam into a small anteroom, returning with a saddle over his shoulder and a bridle in his other hand. "FROST!" he shouted. Sam jumped. "Frost!"

"Hush yer bloody yellin', Yank!"

Sam jerked around at the voice, searching for the source. In moments he saw a small man—barely reaching his elbow—wearing a striped shirt, black vest, and Bowler hat come around the corner of the Livery. His graying beard was down to the middle of his chest and one eye was nearly shut with scar tissue.

"Hey, old man," Zeke greeted. "Need to borrow a horse."

"Do I look like the generous sort, then?" Frost replied. Sam rolled his lips in against his teeth. The decidedly British accent was almost expected after the morning he'd had. "Y'wanta horse, y'pay ferit."

Sam looked at Zeke, puzzled. Zeke shrugged. "He says we have to pay for it."

"I, uh, don't have—"

"Who's this, then?" Frost peered up at Sam.

"This is, uh, my…cousin. Sam. From back home."

"Another Yank!" Frost seemed pleased at the idea, so Sam nodded. "Well, that's fine. Yer' still payin'."

Zeke licked his lips. "What about Ramirez's mare?"

"The Padre's horse?" Frost asked. "No one's been on t' bitch since he stopped that git from shootin' 'er."

"We're heading up to the Mission," Zeke informed him. "We'll take Father Ramirez's mare."

Sam watched Frost twitch his lips his un-scarred eye turning up in what looked like an attempted grin. "Y'ever been on her?"

Zeke shook his head.

Hooking his thumbs into the small chest pockets of his vest, Frost looked at the ground as if contemplating something, then nodded. Half turning, he said, "You see Sentenza up there, you tell him t' stop messing wi' that garden and get back down here. I'm not payin' 'im to be a gardener."

"Will do," Zeke nodded. "Oh, uh…any chance you're seeing Pritchett later?"

"Might be one," Frost replied, puckering his lips and narrowing his eyes at Zeke.

"You think you can send him over to _The Beacon_?"

"Why? Someone drink himself t'death?" Frost asked as he turned away, not waiting for an answer.

"Where are you going?" Zeke called after the small man.

"Breaking fast," Frost said over his shoulder, then disappeared around the corner.

"Hmmm," Zeke muttered. "Wily little bugger."

"What did he mean…y'know about shooting the horse?" Sam asked, his eyes on the saddle in Zeke's hand.

Zeke shook his head and turned, indicating Sam should follow. "One of Ivers' men…uh, Cutter I think, bought this mare, sight unseen. Fool doesn't know a horse from a hole in the ground; she's too hot-blooded for him. Bucked him off in front of Ivers and everyone."

"And you think _I_ can ride her?" Sam replied, his voice cracking.

Zeke continued as if Sam hadn't spoken. He set the saddle down, leaning it forward on its horn, then hooked the bridle over his shoulder as he slid a wood brace from the front of a stall housing a gentle-eyed, bay horse.

"Cutter gets up and pulls his gun," Zeke was saying as he rubbed the horse's nose, pulling the long mane away from the animal's eyes. "Ramirez calls out, but Cutter ignores him. So, Ramirez pulls out his whip."

"He whipped the guy?" Sam asked, caught up in the story as he watched Zeke quickly slip the bridle in place, rolling the bit into his horse's mouth.

"No, he whipped the pistol from the guy's hand, but it pissed Cutter off. Ivers told him to kill Ramirez."

Sam blinked. "He told him to kill a priest—for stopping him from shooting a horse?"

Zeke nodded, pulling a thick, coarse-looking blanket from the stall wall and tossing it over the bay's back. "You cross one of Ivers' men, you cross Ivers," he explained. "And nobody crosses Ivers."

"Who _is_ this guy?"

"He's the devil," Zeke said, picking up the saddle and setting it across the horse's back. He continued talking, providing a running commentary on the evil Ivers had wrought in the town of Sulfur Springs as he caught the cinch and threaded it through the buckle, pulling it tight then moving to the latigo, his hands effortlessly checking each strap of the rigging, but Sam had ceased to listen.

His mind was replaying the sight of Ivers turning from the bar, the flash of oil-thick shadows crossing the man's eyes for the briefest of moments. Text from his father's journal and excerpts of research on demons floated before him almost visibly. Sam rubbed his face.

_This can't be happening…_.

"Anyway, Ivers ended up killing Cutter because the man wouldn't kill a priest. I managed to get Ramirez out of the way and hide him for a short time, and now Ivers is convinced I know where the priest is. Guess he wants revenge or something because he had to go hire two new hands," Zeke explained.

Sam just stood watching the man, working furiously to thread the random thoughts that were sparking behind his eyes into a semblance of meaning.

"Sam, meet Hooker," Zeke said, leading the bay from the confines of the stall.

"What?" Sam blinked, staring stupidly at the reins Zeke held out to him.

"Named him after the man I served under in the war—General Joseph Hooker from Massachusetts."

"The horse's name is…_Hooker_?" Sam repeated.

"Yes." Zeke frowned. "You, Sam. Him, Hooker. Try to keep up."

"What am I supposed to do with those?" Sam asked, still looking at the reins.

Zeke sighed. "Just hold him while I go get the Bitch."

Sam looked up, his lips quirking. "The what?"

"Father Ramirez's horse," Zeke explained. "No one ever got around to naming her and Frost just calls her the Bitch, so…." Zeke shrugged, heading back to the tack room and returning with another saddle and bridle, then disappearing into the shadows of the Livery.

Sam looked at Hooker. The horse's dark brown eyes regarded him patiently. Hesitantly, Sam reached up and rubbed his knuckles along the horse's nose, marveling at the feel of the soft—yet at the same time oddly coarse—hair covering the rock-hard bone. He stretched his hand out and gently ran his fingers down to Hooker's muzzle, stroking the velvet skin around the flared nostrils. Hooker bumped his head against Sam's chest.

"Can you keep a secret?" Sam whispered to the animal. "I've never ridden a horse before."

Hooker tilted his head, rubbing the side of his nose against Sam's shoulder, the might in that motion tipping Sam slightly to the side. He regained his balance, holding the reins loosely in his left hand as he moved down the horse's body, gently stroking along the dark-brown neck to the thickly-muscled shoulders.

"Lead him out, Sam!" Zeke called.

"Out?"

"Of the barn," Zeke said, exasperation in his tone.

"Right," Sam nodded. "Lead him out." He turned, trying to recall the ease at which the cowboys in the movies always moved. "Just like John Wayne, right?" He started to walk toward the opening, Hooker following obediently, when he heard a high-pitched whinny from the depths of the barn. He jumped, turning to look behind him, but Hooker seemed almost bored.

He stepped out into the sunshine, standing in what appeared to be a breezeway between two main paddock areas, and peered around at Sulfur Springs in the morning. A ring of a blacksmith's hammer sounded out not far from where he stood. He could smell baking bread overpowering the scent of manure and alfalfa. A woman called out to a child and Sam watched as two men with thick, handlebar mustaches and wide-brimmed black hats rode down the street, tipping their fingers to their hat brims in unison as they passed a lady carrying a basket, who was heading into the General Store.

_It looks like a movie_.

"Mount up," Zeke called to him as he rode out of the barn atop a gray mare.

Sam looked up at him, at once feeling relief that _he_ wasn't riding the mare and admiration that Zeke looked so natural doing it. The mare's head was fine-boned and pretty to even his untrained eye. Her legs danced in place and Sam watched as Zeke turned her in a tight circle twice before holding her still once more. Her mane and tail were both black and long, hanging down in unkempt tangles and giving her a decidedly wild look.

"What are you waiting for? Swing up! Let's go!"

"Uh, yeah, see…about that…."

Zeke sighed. "You can do this, Sam," he said patiently. "Cross the reins over Hooker's neck so you don't lose them. Okay, now put your left foot in the stirrup, no, no…yes, like that. Grab hold of the horn—the thing sticking up there, yeah, there you go. Okay, now…uh, hop a couple of times to get your momentum and just…swing your other leg over."

It looked _so easy_ in the movies. The horses appeared to be simply extensions of the men, moving as if able to read the rider's thoughts. Hooker was impossibly tall. Sam hopped three times, then shoved all of his weight to his left leg, leveraging himself up and swinging his right leg across the saddle.

"Settle your ass on the seat—in the curve of the cantle there. Okay, now, put the balls of your feet in the stirrups and drop your heels down. No, uh…picture a cannon ball tied to your heel. There, you got it. How does the length feel?"

Sam gripped the saddle horn as Hooker shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "F-fine, I guess."

_I can't believe I'm doing this._

"They're set for me and we're about the same height, so I think they'll be fine," Zeke said, turning the mare again to settle her down. "Okay, now, pick up the reins and hold them in one hand. Hooker neck reins so you just want to lay the reins against his neck on one side or the other to turn him. Like this." He illustrated with the mare. "See how I did that?"

Sam nodded nervously.

"Take a breath, Sam," Zeke ordered. "This guy's been to war and back, okay? A cannon could blow up next to him and he'd yawn. He's gonna take care of you."

"If you say so," Sam replied.

"Okay, when you want him to move, nudge him in the ribs with your heels. When you want him to stop, pull back on the reins—low, toward your hips. Not up here like this."

"Okay."

"Just keep your ass in the seat, don't lean too far forward…and remember," Zeke danced the mare around Sam and Hooker, "if you fall off, you just get straight back on."

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said, sliding a look at Zeke.

"You ready to find your brother?"

Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Yah!" Zeke kicked the mare into a canter and headed down the street, past the General Store.

"We shoulda called Dad," Sam muttered as he held the reins in his right hand, the saddle horn with his left, and followed suit, gently kicking Hooker's flank. The horse's eyes were already on his master and he followed Zeke down the dirt street at a quick trot, Sam flopping loosely on his back gasping a nervous, "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod…."

* * *

**a/n: ***bites lip* Okay... lay it on me.

Next chapter takes them further down the rabbit hole; the old west wasn't a very easy time. Especially for our boys.

I hope you continue to enjoy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1.

**a/n**: I'm glad to see you back! Thank you so much for reading and for taking time to review. Those of you who are simply enjoying the story, I thank you as well. *smile* Still working out how to break up my usual chapters into 'shorter' chapters. I've noticed that they get longer after this one simply because a lot happens to the boys. This one is a skosh shorter than I generally like to post, but in any case, herein lies the reunion ya'll were asking for. Hope it meets your expectations.

* * *

"_Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment."_

_~ Anonymous_

www

_Sulfur Springs, Texas 1870_

"How'd you get those cuts?"

The girl's gray eyes were on him as he stepped from behind the barricade of the empty stall and shrugged the shirt she'd provided for him over his shoulders. He woke earlier to the light of morning, his head clearer, his body aching, and one thought on his mind: _find Sam_.

Bird had been waiting for him, ready with a cold biscuit and something that might have been bacon, hot coffee, and a change of clothes she said had belonged to her father. He'd swallowed the rest of the aspirin he'd tucked into the pocket of his ruined jeans with a gulp of coffee and stepped into the abandoned stall to change into the clean pants safe from her watchful eyes.

"If this is a barn, where are all of the animals?" he countered.

"Sentenza moved 'em to town," Bird replied, "and you didn't answer my question."

Dean arched an eyebrow, pulling the black shirt closed around his wounded side. He'd removed the dirty bandages but lacked anything to replace them, so the stitches and tight, hot skin around the cuts brushed painfully against the cotton material. He knew he was running a fever: he only ever felt his clothes rubbing against his skin when he was feverish. The thing that troubled him was that the slices on his forehead were practically healed; he didn't understand why these Daeva cuts on his side were causing him so much trouble.

"Well, they're not from where my wings used to be," he replied softly as he buttoned the shirt.

Bird tossed him a dirty look. "I'm not stupid," she said, then slid her eyes to the side. "'Sides…I already checked your back while you was sleepin'."

Dean tucked the shirttail into his dark pants. The only things of his own that he'd been able to salvage were his amulet, ring, the Zippo that had been in the pocket with the aspirin, and his boots. Bird had brought him a well-worn belt, which he pulled to the closest notch. Apparently her Papa had been a bit stockier than Dean. He had to roll the sleeves of the shirt up a couple of times, but other than that, the clothes fit rather well.

"Thanks for the clothes," he said sincerely. He looked down at the cot. A black duster and hat lay on top. "They fit really good."

"You kinda look like him," she said. "My Papa. Only…."

"Only what?" Dean asked.

"Only his eyes were…softer, I guess."

Dean picked up the rest of the clothes, pleased that the hat fit easily on his head, the brim shadowing his eyes. For a moment, he wished he could see his own reflection. _I knew I'd make a bitchin' cowboy…._

"Was it from that other man?"

Dean frowned as he pulled on the coat, feeling the skin against his side stretch a bit with the motion. "Was what from the other man?"

"Those cuts on your side."

"Jesus," Dean breathed, rolling his eyes, "you don't give up, do you?"

Bird shrugged. "If I did…I wouldn't be here."

_Good point_.

"My brother and I got in a fight with a…bad…thing," he tried, faltering a bit around his explanation. "We won, but it hurt us a bit."

"Is your brother okay?"

Dean swallowed, sliding his arms into the long, black duster she'd brought him, the edge of it brushing his calves. Her question panged against his heart as he thought of their situation. "I sure hope so," he replied. "I'm gonna head over to the Mission. See if I can…figure out what happened to him."

"I already told you there ain't nobody over there. I checked twice."

Dean lifted a shoulder. The aspirin was taking affect, easing his aches. "I'm just gonna check myself."

"Wait," Bird implored, turning away and digging through a satchel.

"Bird," Dean sighed, pulling off the hat and turning the brim around in his hands. He wasn't used to the feel of it. "You saved my life, and I thank you for that, but—"

"Here," Bird interrupted, shoving a thick piece of leather toward him. "It was Papa's. He don't need it no more."

Frowning, Dean took it from her, surprised by the weight. Turning it over in his hand, he realized it was a pistol slipped into a black leather holster, the belt section wrapping around the holster. He slid the weapon free and whistled: it was a beauty. Colt Navy revolver with ivory grips. It looked almost new—he wondered how many times it had even been fired. He rolled the cylinder free and saw it was loaded with six rounds.

"I thought you said your dad was a rancher."

Bird shrugged. "He owned a ranch," she said. "Mama always said she had to tame him a little."

Dean wrapped the leather belt around his waist, finding a spot on his hips that felt oddly _right_. He buckled the holster then looked down at where the gun hit his thigh. Dropping his right hand, he found that the butt of the pistol rested on the inside of his wrist and as he brought his hand slowly up, he pulled the gun with it in a such a natural, automatic motion that he caught his breath.

"Use those strips there to tie the end to your leg and it'll stay in place," Bird said, pointing to the bits of leather at the base of the holster.

Dean did as she instructed and pulled the gun once more. Hefting it in his palm, he turned from Bird and pointed it toward the opposite side of the small, abandoned barn, checking the sight. Spinning the weapon on his finger, he caught it in the hollow of his hand once more and thumbed back the hammer.

The gun had a decidedly different feel from his 1911; there was something intimate about the way the grip curved into his hand. He spun it again, then dropped it into the holster. He couldn't help but admit that he liked the feel of the sidearm. He pulled the gun up and out of the holster in one quick, sweeping motion and found himself grinning. He was used to tucking his weapon into a side holster—or in the waist band at the small of his back—but this felt just as natural.

He turned to face Bird, his grin sliding from his face when he met her wide eyes.

"What?"

"I believe you," she whispered.

"You believe me?" he asked, puzzled.

"No angel would handle a gun like that," she stated, licking her lips in a quick, nervous dart of her tongue.

He tried to ignore the sad pang her words worked in his heart and nodded carefully. "Yeah, well," he shrugged moving back to where he'd dropped his hat on the cot. "I tried to tell you."

A shadow appeared in the doorway causing Dean to flinch back, squinting at the dark figure, the light from the outside turning it into a black outline.

"Easy," Bird soothed. "It's just Sentenza."

Sentenza moved deeper into the dimly lit barn and Dean saw the reason the man didn't speak. A horrific, disfiguring scar ran along the right side of his jaw, tucking down against his throat, carving an almost crescent-shaped concave hollow in his neck. Dean blinked; amazed that someone had survived such a wound. He forced his eyes up and met the dark-skinned man's gaze.

Though his scarred mouth didn't move, his eyes smiled. Dean smiled back, watching as Bird moved to the petite man and threw her arms around him. She spoke in rapid Spanish and Dean watched as Sentenza replied with a complicated, confusing flurry of hand motions. Bird flung worried eyes back toward Dean.

"Riders are coming!"

"How many?" Dean asked, tensing in reaction to her fear.

"Two, he says."

"How'd you learn sign language?" Dean asked, grabbing his hat and moving toward the entrance to the barn.

Bird shrugged. "It's Indian sign," she told him. "Papa taught my big brother, Rory, and Rory taught me. That's how come he calls me Bird; it was the only sign I could do for a long time."

Dean put his shoulder to the entrance of the barn and peered out. The Mission was roughly fifty yards to the East. Looking South, he saw dust billowing and coming closer.

"That them?" he asked Sentenza, nodding toward the dust.

Bird translated and the man nodded.

"How the hell's he know there's two?" Dean muttered.

"He just knows stuff," Bird explained, the tremor in her voice betraying her fear. "I gotta go. If it's Ivers' men—"

"Go." Dean took her shoulder and turned her toward Sentenza's arms. He gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze. "You've done enough for me, kid. I'm heading to the Mission. I'll wait for them there."

"But Father Ramirez ain't there!"

Dean looked at her quickly, about to ask who Father Ramirez was when it clicked: the Mission's holy man. "Doesn't matter," he called. "Just go. I'll be okay."

"Don't forget me," Bird implored, tossing a quick and desperate glance his way, then grabbed Sentenza's hand as he led her through a small back door of the barn and out of sight around the corner.

"Not a chance," Dean muttered, looking back at the approaching dust cloud.

It had yet to morph into two riders; he suspected he had just enough time to get over to the Mission. Shoving the black hat down on his head to keep it in place, he jogged awkwardly across the barren paddock area, the motion pulling at him in interesting places as his wounds tugged one way, his gun belt another.

He pressed his arm tight against his side, seeking to provide support for the aching wounds, and ducked in through the small side door of the Mission. Inside it was quiet. Candles burned in deep red glass votives at the front of the chapel area beneath a stone carving of Mary that he'd not noticed the last time he'd been in this room. There were alcoves and doorways flanking the carving that must have crumbled and disappeared over time. Evenly spaced pews covered the area where he'd last seen Sam as he'd fought Jake for control of a knife while Max Thomas scooped up the innocent girl and hauled her to safety.

Exhaling slowly through parted lips, Dean searched for the best place to hide as he heard the thunder of hooves approach the stone building. His heart hammered against his ribs with impatient demand; his mouth was dry. The stories from only person he'd talked to in this time had made him extremely wary of meeting anyone else, while the fact that Jake was out there running around free had him wanting to head to town and question everyone in sight. The only thing that mattered was finding Sam. He refused to entertain the idea that Sam might not even _be here_...in this time...in this place.

Pulling the borrowed weapon from its borrowed holster, Dean rolled his shoulder against one of the walls along a stone alcove and pulled himself into the shadows, listening as the horses slid to a stop and voices rolled dully toward him from the exterior.

"Doesn't look like anyone is here, but I'll poke my head inside. You good?" Dean tried to weigh the threat of this first, unfamiliar voice. He lifted the barrel of the revolver.

"I'll live," came a tight, weary reply.

Dean felt his heart stop beating, then thud painfully against his ribcage once more. He'd know that voice in a sea of noise.

_Sam._

"You did pretty good for your first time."

"Didn't remember the Mission being so far away from town."

"It's barely a mile—"

Dean had bolted from the protection of the alcove and flung open the main door to the Mission before he truly registered moving. He stood in the open arch, the black duster blowing around his calves in the wind from the Texas plain, the borrowed hat shadowing his eyes, and the Colt held loosely in his grip, staring with hungry eyes at his brother.

"Sam?" He was breathless with gratitude and relief, his body going cold then spiking up hot inside the back-beat of his slamming heart.

The men standing next to the two horses had looked up in unison at the sound of the door slamming against the stone wall. The one in the brown duster reached for a rifle tucked into a scabbard behind the saddle of a bay horse. The other one, though, seemed to straighten and sag inside himself at the same time.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded ancient and far too young at the same time.

Dean stepped out of the Mission and crossed the short distance between himself and his brother as if bound by a magnetic pull. Without pausing, he reached up and wrapped his arms around Sam's shoulders, pulling the other man against him in a tight, fierce hug.

"Damn, it's good to see you," Dean confessed through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes as he felt Sam reflexively grip him back, holding on just as tightly.

"'S good to see you, too," Sam replied, his voice choked with emotion.

Memories flooded Dean's senses, ricocheting through his brain. Memories of times Sam had been gone before—the emptiness that had surrounded Dean during those bleak days—battled with memories of Sam returning and left him momentarily weak as he gripped his brother to him. He could feel Sam's heartbeat against him and took a breath, at home once more in the knowledge that regardless of where _here_ was…they were here _together_.

Dean clapped his brother on the back with his free hand and then stepped away, holstering the pistol he'd almost forgotten he was still gripping. He couldn't stop looking at Sam, searching to make sure he was in one piece, wasn't broken, was whole.

"What the hell—" They started speaking at once, then stopped.

"How did you—" Another pause and then Sam grinned, his eyes suspiciously wet.

"Where _were_ you, man?" Dean asked, feeling his entire being relax at the sight of his brother's dimples.

"I ended up in town—outside of a saloon."

"How the _hell_ did you end up all the way out there?"

"You got me—what about you?"

"I was here." Dean gestured toward the barn just off the Mission. It struck him that when he'd first laid eyes on it, the barn had barely resembled a building. "So was Jake, but I guess he ran off."

"You _guess_?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "I wasn't exactly…_with it_ when we…y'know…beamed in or whatever."

"Yeah, my head was a little Swiss-cheesed, too."

"I'm just glad—" Dean had to stop, lifting his hand once more to rest on Sam's shoulder.

He pressed his lips together, blocking the tide of emotion that threatened to spill free into the space between them and betray the intensity of his fear and worry. He hadn't let himself consider the fact that he'd made this journey without Sam; he'd only focused on finding his brother. Now that Sam was here, solid under the grip of his hand, relief turned him weak and shook his heart in ways he wasn't prepared for and his mind ran through a loop of _what might have beens_.

Sam's hazel eyes caught his; the tears that had turned them bright a moment ago flooding and threatening to spill. He nodded once at Dean, his chin quivering slightly as he wordlessly join Dean in silent gratitude.

"You're okay, though?" Dean gripped Sam's shoulder in a one-handed hug, his voice the scratch of a needle on a well-worn record.

Sam's eyes skipped over Dean's face, then skimmed the borrowed clothing before coming back up to meet his brother's gaze. "I'm okay."

"Well, _I'm_ not!" Sounded a new voice—one Dean recognized as having spoken earlier.

He turned, facing the brown-haired man.

"I'm guessing you're Dean, the brother he was all fired up about finding," the man said, a wide mouth forcing a frown that was betrayed by a light that danced in his eyes as he took in the sight of the brothers, still standing close, framed by the two horses.

Dean nodded. "That'd be me."

"Dean, this is Zeke," Sam said, stepping forward. "Owns the saloon where I, uh…landed. He kinda helped put me back together."

"Gave him some clothes," Zeke brought his chin up. "And whiskey."

Dean worked to suppress a grin. "Thanks for taking care of my brother, Zeke." He looked quickly at Sam. "Did you tell him—"

"I only told him where we're from," Sam interrupted. "Or, y'know…_when_."

Dean lifted an eyebrow his brother. "Worried about messing up the space-time continuum?"

"Something like that," Sam shrugged.

"Okay, I have absolutely _no idea _what the hell you just said, but, yes, I know you are—and I can't believe I'm going to say this—from the future," Zeke said, holding up his hands as if warding them off. "What I don't know is what you're going to do about it."

Sam swallowed so hard that Dean heard it. He frowned, recognizing the shift in the air around Sam: his brother was worried. "What is it?"

"Dean, Leo's dead."

Dean blinked, a lead weight suddenly replacing his stomach. "What? How?"

Sam lifted a shoulder helplessly. "Broke his neck in the…the fall, I guess."

"Oh, that's…very…not good," Dean breathed, feeling his chest cave slightly with the implications. "Jake's alive, but…I mean, I have no idea where he is. I didn't see Max. He wasn't in the Mission when…y'know…ka-blew-ey," he bounced his finger tips off each other miming an explosion. "Maybe he wasn't caught in the spell. Jeeeeze," he blew the word out on a slow exhale. "Leo's dead? How'd _we_ make it in one piece?"

"One _piece_? How'd we make it back in _time, _man? Screw that—how are we gonna get home?" Sam asked, his voice losing years as his eyes implored Dean to _fix this_. He shied nervously away from the gray mare as she shifted her weight and then moved to the other side of Dean, closer to the bay horse.

"Hey, Sammy, don't worry, okay? We'll figure something out," Dean soothed, pulling off the black hat and letting the wind cool his suddenly sweaty brow. The aspirin was starting to wear off a bit. "Not sure _what_, exactly, but…," he looked at his brother. "What is it? What are you staring at?"

"Dude, you look like you walked right out of an old West movie_,_" Sam chuckled.

Dean looked down at his all-black attire, then grinned.

"What's a moo-vee?" Zeke asked, a line bisecting his brows.

Dean shook his head at the other man. "Forget it. Probably best you didn't know."

"Well, I gotta see a man about a horse," Zeke sighed, rolling his neck.

Dean smirked, looking over at the bemused expression on Sam's face.

"Thing is?" Sam said. "He means that literally."

Zeke leaned into the Mission, hands bracing him on the outside of the door frame. "Ramirez!"

"He's not there," Dean informed him. "Apparently he hasn't been here for days."

Zeke shot a look over at Dean and Sam asked him, "How do you know that?"

"The kid that found me told me."

"What kid?" Zeke asked.

Dean closed his mouth, suddenly hesitant to betray Bird's identity or location. The fear on her face, in her eyes, when Sentenza had told her riders were approaching had been palpable.

Sam bumped him with his shoulder. "It's okay," he assured him. "You can trust him."

_You always knew me too well for your own good, Sammy._

"Her name is Bird—"

"Bird O'Maera?" Zeke suddenly stepped forward, close enough that Dean squared up his shoulders and brought his eyes level in an instinctive, defensive posture. "She's here?"

"She was," Dean hedged. "Sentenza has her hidden from—"

"Ivers," Zeke said, turning away and rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Son of a bitch. I thought he took them all."

"He took her mother and brother," Dean said. "She hid from them. Kid buried her own father, man."

Zeke looked over at him, eyes stricken. "She's eleven years old!"

Dean lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "She's smart," he said. "Used herbs to fix my neck." He pointed to the healing cut.

Zeke turned away, running a hand through his hair and causing it to stick up on top.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said suddenly, his eyes on Dean's neck. "When I saw Jake cut you, it didn't click. Until it was too late. And by then...Leo was..."

Dean waved him off. "Don't worry about it, Sam. I didn't think it would work either."

"Blood of an innocent," Sam said nodded. "Yeah, gotta say…you're not the first person on my list."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Thanks. That's sweet of you."

"Not like you're Mother Teresa."

"Guess all he needed was someone who hadn't killed a human being," Dean revealed, looking down. "Not that I haven't been tempted."

"This is fascinating, really," Zeke broke in, grabbing the reins of the bay horse, "and I have to say that I haven't been this confused since my first year in medical school. But, if Ramirez is missing, and Bird's not with Ivers, I gotta find her."

"Why?" The brothers asked.

"Why?" Zeke turned to face them, fire in his eyes. "Because Ivers is a truly evil man and Sentenza can only protect her for so long and if she doesn't have Ramirez here, it's only a matter of time before he finds out she survived and comes looking for her. She's a witness; he can't afford to leave her wandering around out here...all..._alive_ and...and _talking_."

"But…I thought Ramirez was in trouble, too," Sam pointed out. "Ivers wants him dead, he said."

"All the more reason to get her the hell out of here. Ivers comes looking for Ramirez...finds this little witness," Zeke shoved an impatient hand through his tussled hair once more, "has himself a field day."

"I don't know that she's gonna want to leave," Dean said softly.

"Who do you think could last longer against him? A grown man or a little girl?" Zeke shot back.

Dean looked down, turning his hat around in his grip. "I wouldn't sell Bird short. She's pretty damn tough."

"She's a _kid_," Zeke stressed, staring hard at Dean. "You were a kid once, right?"

"Not really," Sam answered softly for him.

Zeke took a breath and in the shift of his expression, Dean saw something that grabbed him. Something he recognized. Zeke reminded him of certain hunters he'd encountered in his youth and when hunting on his own over the last four years. It was a secret, haunted expression. One that he could see the man kept carefully guarded and that only escaped when he wasn't looking.

"I knew Bird's dad," Zeke revealed. "He was a good man. He'd lived a hard life, made some mistakes—but who hasn't?" He rubbed a hand across his mouth. "He didn't deserve to die that way—killed by that bastard. The fact that his little girl had to bury him…."

The trio stood silently for a moment.

"Well, regardless of her being safer with Zeke than Sentenza," Dean said, taking a breath and shifting under the new weight Zeke's words had settled on his shoulders. "We gotta find her anyway. She's the last one that saw Jake."

"And you need to find this Jake fellow because…," Zeke prompted.

Sam looked up at his new friend. "He's the only way we're gonna get home."

"Why? Did he bring you here or something?"

"Or something," Dean sighed. "He's looking for a weapon."

"Dean!" Sam protested.

"What? We're not gonna be able to pull out a neuralyzer and erase his memories, Sam. He knows _when_ we're from…he can't _un_know that."

Sam looked away, saying, "I just think we gotta be more cautious, is all! Every second we're here we run the risk of screwing things up so bad we change the course of history!"

Dean saw Zeke's eyebrows bounce up.

"Oh, would you calm down?" Dean rolled his eyes, turning slightly away from Sam and rubbing the back of his neck in an unconscious gesture of weary tension. His body was starting to tick out an internal beat of aches. "Telling _one guy _the truth isn't going to…echo through time and make it so that…_Kennedy_ isn't born or something."

"Who's Kennedy?" Zeke asked.

Sam thrust out a hand toward the saloon owner, his face a picture of indignation. "Great! Now he knows about Kennedy!"

"Sam! Simmer down," Dean ordered, his voice growing hard as he stared down his brother. "This? It's not helping. We're in big trouble here. And besides, _you_ said I could trust him."

"It's not about _trusting him_, Dean," Sam snapped, rounding to face him, the expression on his face mirroring the anger Dean had seen in the motel in Gary before the world went dark. He resisted the urge to slide a hand over and shield his wounded side as Sam continued his rant. "It's about _protecting_ him! We don't know anything about him—who he is, or who he's supposed to be…we could completely ruin the lives of anyone we encounter just by them…_seeing_ us."

Dean took a breath. "You really want to get into some existential argument in the middle of nowhere? Fine!" He stepped forward, causing Sam to back up, his shoulder brushing the rear flank of the bay horse. "What if we never get out of here? What if this is what was always meant to happen to us? What if there are no accidents? What if we were born just to fight monsters and end up in eighteen-fucking-seventy to _die_?"

"Uh, guys?" Zeke hesitantly tried to break in.

"We're all we got, Sam," Dean quieted, ignoring Zeke, but unable to ignore the devastated look in his brother's eyes. "We can't fight each other on this."

"So…you win, is that it?" Sam challenged softly.

"Guys?" Zeke tried again.

Dean felt himself sag a bit, feeling the sting of his cuts and the ache of his joints. "No, man. No…I don't win." He half-turned, looking toward the town of Sulfur Springs. "You want to do it without help? We do it without help."

"Guys!"

"What?" The brothers snapped in unison.

Zeke pointed wordlessly toward the barn. Dean followed the line of his finger and saw Bird standing at the edge of her garden, Sentenza behind her, watching them.

"Bird?"

"Is that Sam?" She called back. "Is that your brother?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I, uh…found him."

"He don't look like one, either," she sighed, disappointment obvious in her voice.

"He's not," Dean took a step forward. "You okay?"

Bird nodded, looking down. Sentenza rested an arthritic hand on her shoulder.

"I'm not one what?" Sam whispered.

"Angel," Dean whispered back.

"What?" Sam bleated.

Dean shot him a look. "I fell out of the friggin' sky right in front of her, man. What was she supposed to think?"

"Huh…," Sam mused, his lips twitching. "Dean Winchester, fallen angel."

"Oh, shut up," Dean grumbled and started toward Bird.

"I ain't goin'," Bird suddenly declared, her declaration stopping him in his tracks.

"I haven't asked you to go anywhere," Dean called back.

"No, but you're fixin' to," Bird said. "I know you." She pointed to Zeke. "You drank with Papa."

Zeke nodded, looking slightly chagrinned. "I did."

"He fixed up your horse once," she continued.

"He did," Zeke nodded again. "Your daddy was a good man."

"You want me to come back to town, don'tcha?"

"I just want you somewhere safe, Bird," Zeke called back.

"I'm safe here," Bird countered. "He don't know nothin' about me here."

"Sentenza can't protect you forever," Zeke replied. "Pretty soon Ivers is gonna come here looking for Ramirez."

"He ain't here," Bird said. "I told Dean that like a hundred times."

Dean glanced at Zeke and held up two fingers. "Twice…but who's counting."

"Ivers doesn't know that, Bird," Zeke said. "I just…what if you came to the Livery? Sentenza, too. Frost wants him back down there anyway."

Bird was silent a moment, her smokey eyes seeming to suck them all toward her in a glance. "I don't want to leave my garden," she said, the defiance of her earlier tone beginning to wane. "They're my Mama's plants. She's gonna want them...when...she comes back."

Dean glanced over at Zeke and saw the man's face pale with the child's words. Sam shuffled his feet next to Dean, but neither man said anything in reply.

"Bird," Dean spoke up. "Why don't you take some with you—like the ones you used on me? Sentenza could check on the rest when he gets done with whatever he's gotta do back at the...uh..."

"Livery," Zeke supplied.

"Right," Dean nodded. "He can come up and check on them for you until your mom..."

He felt Sam look at him sharply, eyes warning him to not make a promise he couldn't keep.

"Until your mom comes back," Dean finished, feeling fire replace the lead ball where his stomach used to be.

Dean watched Bird frown, then look up at the small, scarred man. They spoke for a moment.

"What happened to him, Zeke?" Sam said softly.

"Who, Sentenza?" Zeke asked. Sam nodded. "Happened when he was a kid, I guess. His family was attacked by Comanches. He was the only one who survived."

"_Indians_ did that to him?" Dean asked. "But he…uses Indian signs to talk to Bird. They have a change of heart or something?"

Zeke spared him a glance. "There's more than one tribe out here."

Dean frowned, opening his mouth to retort when Bird called out, her tone heavy with resignation. "Okay, we'll come. Just lemme get my stuff."

The men waited, shuffling feet in the dirt, tossing pebbles against the wall of the Mission, adjusting the straps of the horses' saddles, generally keeping their hands busy. Dean kept Sam in his eyeline, unwilling to even let him wander to the other side of the bay horse without Dean's gaze following. Their reunion was much too recent to taunt the ire of the random events that seemed to avidly chase them. Eventually, after Dean had started to feel the heat of the sun beat on his neck without the shade of his hat, Bird reappeared with a pack slung over her shoulder.

They straightened up when they saw the small girl. Dean noticed she'd cleaned the dirt from her face and brushed her hair, turning her façade of toughness into glass and making her look even more like the child she was.

"Where's Sentenza?" Zeke asked.

"He'll be along on his own," Bird replied. "He don't like crowds much."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

"You want me on Hooker?" Bird asked.

Dean choked on a suppressed gasp of laughter. "Who?"

"Zeke's horse," Sam informed him.

Dean guffawed. "The…the _horse_ is named Hooker?"

Zeke gave him an exasperated glance. "Yes! Hooker. After General Joseph Hooker. What is _with_ you two?"

"What's this one's name?" Dean asked, gesturing to the gray mare.

"She doesn't have a name," Sam said.

Dean's eyebrows went up. "You're telling me we're gonna be riding through the desert on a horse with no name?"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's humor.

"If that's a problem," Zeke said, tying Bird's pack to the saddle's back jockey, "Frost just called her the Bitch."

Dean started to laugh again. "Hooker and the Bitch, huh?"

He saw Bird and Zeke exchange a confused look.

"Wait…you're serious?" Sam said suddenly. "_We're_…riding the mare?"

Zeke looked over at Sam. "I'm not gonna put Bird on her. And you two will be fine."

"What's the problem?" Dean asked, brow folding in confusion.

"The problem is that there's a reason she's called the Bitch, Dean," Sam sputtered. He quickly recounted the story of Ramirez stopping Cutter from putting the horse down, pulling a, "good for him," from Bird.

Dean moved around to the mare's head, running his hand along her sweaty neck under the unkempt, black mane. Sliding his palm up to her ears, he rubbed at the seal-soft hair there and gently massaged the bridge of her forehead beneath the bridle band. The mare leaned her nose into Dean's chest as if subtly asking for more.

"It's not like you've ever ridden a horse before, either, Dean," Sam was saying. "It's not easy."

"What's so hard about it?" Dean asked, slowly running both hands down the curved jaw of the horse and rubbing the pads of his thumbs under her watchful eyes. "You just put one leg on either side and hold on."

"Yeah, hold on. Right," Sam scoffed. "You got a thousand pounds of power between your legs and you just…hold on."

Dean couldn't help himself. His grin showed teeth and he caught Sam's _I can't believe I just said that_ look with his quick upward glance. "Doesn't sound so bad…."

He rubbed the velvety underside of the mare's muzzle, then stroked the hard bone of her nose. She brought her head up as he continued to scratch under her jaw and her lip curled in a bounce of helpless delight.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" Dean spoke softly to the horse. "See? You just gotta know how to talk to them," he said, not taking his attention from the horse.

"She's not the Impala, Dean," Sam grumbled. "You're not gonna be able to sweet-talk her into _not_ bucking us off."

"The Impala never bucked us off," Dean countered.

"Your brother has a point, Sam," Zeke broke in from atop Hooker. "She's not a bad horse; she's just…misunderstood. Needs someone to treat her right."

"Don't be scared, Sammy," Dean said quietly, rubbing the mare's head, but looking at his brother. "I won't let you fall."

"That isn't very reassuring," Sam muttered.

"You boys ready?" Zeke said.

Dean glanced over, checking to see that Bird rode behind the saddle on Zeke's horse, her arms securely wrapped around the saloon owner's middle.

"I'll drive," he said.

"Why am I not surprised?" Sam grumbled.

"They talk funny," Bird commented to Zeke.

"You noticed that too, huh?" Zeke tossed back to her.

Dean wrapped the reins around the mare's neck, getting a fist full of her unruly mane, then shoved his left foot in the stirrup. He felt the pull in his side and winced, closing his eyes for a split second. Before anyone could say anything about his not being able to mount a damn horse, he shifted his weight and swung his leg over, barely able to bite back a groan.

"Nothing to it," he gasped out, smiling tightly as he shifted his weight in the stirrups, instinctively finding a comfortable pocket of space on the back of the horse.

"Where are you hurt?" Sam countered immediately.

"'M fine," Dean shook his head.

"Dean."

"Sam."

"He's got some cuts on his side," Bird said.

Dean glared at her. "Traitor."

She simply lifted an eyebrow, unaffected by his tone. "They look infected."

"Dean!" Sam said, exasperated.

"What?" Dean protested. "It's not like I did it on purpose."

Sam blew out a breath. "How do I get up there?"

"Kick a stirrup free, Dean," Zeke instructed. "Sam, grab his arm and use the free stirrup for leverage. There you go. Okay now swing up behind the saddle. You got it."

The mare danced a bit sideways under the added weight.

"Easy, honey," Dean soothed, rubbing her shoulder. "You're okay."

"She likes how you talk to her," Bird said. "Watch her ears."

"I've got a way with the ladies," Dean grinned at Bird.

She raised her eyebrow again. "Not all of them."

Sam chuckled.

"Shut up," Dean muttered, shifting the duster free from beneath Sam's legs. "And keep your hands to yourself."

"Where'm I supposed to hold onto, then?"

"Hang onto the saddle," Dean ordered. "Just no grabby hands."

"You're such a jerk," Sam muttered.

"Bitch," Dean replied. "Oh, wait…."

Zeke turned Hooker and started back toward town at a slow canter. Mirroring his movements, Dean turned the mare, pressing his heels into her sides. She trotted for a moment, drawing a quick gasp of pain from Dean and a curse from Sam. He kicked again and she shifted into the smoother gait of the canter. Dean found that once she began to really move, the motion wasn't as jarring. Instead, the steady, rocking horse-like roll felt natural to him. He moved his hips with the motion of the horse, bouncing slightly up when she moved a front leg forward and absorbing the impact in his thighs. He knee fit against the stiff flaps of the saddle and he felt his heart quicken as the mare gathered herself and picked up speed to keep pace with the bay horse in front of them.

He felt Sam's hands bounce to his waist as the mare hopped over a rough patch of ground, but didn't say anything. Sam didn't reach high enough to brush against the wounds on his side and the contact reassured him that his brother wasn't going to tumble off the back of the horse. In no time at all, they reached Sulfur Springs and Dean followed Zeke to the Livery. They rode into a paddock area, the swinging wooden gate held open by a short man wearing a bowler hat and sporting a long, gray beard.

"Who's the mini Gandalf over there?" Dean asked over his shoulder.

"That's Frost," Sam replied, slightly winded. "Owns the Livery."

Sam put a hand on Dean's thigh, gripped the back of the saddle, then slid awkwardly to the ground. "Why didn't you let Bird use herbs on the cuts on your side?"

Dean sighed, knowing his brother wasn't going to let this one go easily. Truth be told, he didn't mind so much; they weren't going to heal on their own. And he could feel his fever returning. "They still had the bandages you put on them until this morning. I didn't know how bad they were myself until I changed clothes."

"You didn't say anything?"

"I had other things on my mind, Sam," Dean grumbled, dismounting with a grunt of pain.

"I don't understand why they're infected," Sam said as Bird jogged over and took the mare's reins from Dean, tossing him a quick grin as she did so. "The ones on our faces are practically gone."

Dean shrugged, watching Bird lead the gray horse into the barn while Zeke and Frost spoke in hushed, yet animated tones. Another man emerged from the shadows of the Livery, taking the horse from Bird. It took Dean a moment to realize that Sentenza had arrived, quietly and quickly, and was once more positioned as Bird's shadow and guardian. Motioning to Sam with his head to follow, Dean moved away from the men and around to the front of the Livery where they looked around at the town.

"This is just…bizarro world," Dean said quietly, eyes taking in the boardwalks fixed to the sides of the false-fronted buildings, the single-paned windows, the women with dirty-hemmed skirts and bleached-white blouces, and the men with side arms and thick mustaches. "I feel like I'm an extra in a movie."

"In a movie where people we know die," Sam said softly, reminding Dean of Leo. It seemed impossible that the rough, worn-down hunter that had perched in the back of the Impala mere days before and had confessed that he was willing to kill his friend to stop him from doing this...was dead.

"And where there _aren't_ any movies," Dean pointed out, glancing back toward the opened door of the Livery, trying to catch sight of Bird. She would have liked movies, he felt certain.

"Fox? Ray?" A man with shoulder-length black hair, a thick, black mustache, and an almost sombrero-sized hat approached them, beady eyes glowering. He looked first at Dean, then at Sam. "Where the hell have you been? You know what Ivers is gonna do when I come back late with you two?"

Dean pressed his lips together. "'Fraid it's not your day, man. 'Cause I'm not Fox, and he's not Ray."

The man's frown deepened. "You're not Fox?"

Dean shook his head.

The man looked at Sam. "You're not Fox, either?"

"No, I'm not Ray," Sam replied straight-faced.

"Goddammit," the man kicked at the ground. "Ivers is gonna have my ass on a spike for this one."

"Maybe they're at the saloon," Sam suggested.

At that, the man's beady eyes brightened and he turned on his heels.

"Gotta tell you, man," Dean muttered. "I'm really not a fan of this Ivers' dude."

"Dean," Sam leaned close, dropping his voice to a conspirator's whisper. "I think Zeke might be right about Ivers being evil." He told Dean about seeing the man's eyes go ink-black and the signs of a demon he'd read about while researching. "I think there's a reason this place is called Sulfur Springs."

"A demon, though? You sure?" Dean felt a shiver slide through him, fingers of worry crawling slowly up his spine.

"No, I'm not _sure_ sure," Sam replied, sighing. "But…something's going on."

"Maybe he's just your basic bad guy," Dean said, his hand sliding to his side under the duster, gingerly touching the swollen skin around the puckered stitches. He was hurting. He just had to figure out how much to tell Sam; the kid worried too much as it was. "Trying to take over the town and bend it to his will. Hollywood must've gotten its ideas from somewhere, y'know?"

"I think it's more than that, Dean," Sam said, shaking his head slowly. "I've just…got a really bad feeling about this."

"Yeah, well," Dean muttered, lifting his eyes to glance around the quiet motion of the town. "You're not alone."

"Boys," Zeke called out from behind them. "Something you need to hear."

Exchanging twin looks of dread, the brothers turned to face Zeke.

"I think I know where your other friend is."

"Jake?" Sam asked. "How?"

"That man that was just here?"

"The one with the flying saucer for a hat?" Dean asked.

Zeke frowned. "What's a flying—oh, forget it. The one looking for Ivers' new hands."

The brothers nodded.

"He was here earlier, too," Zeke informed them. He motioned with a quick toss of his head back toward the opened door of the Livery where Frost stood, watching Sentenza check the hooves of a black horse. "Told Frost how Ivers was recruiting like crazy—pushing for this one other piece of land and needed more hands to ride with him. Paying extremely well, so I hear."

"What's this got to do with Jake?"

Zeke looked at Sam. "Frost said the man was going on about some geezer named Jake Brand who showed up at Ivers' place insisting on being hired; says he thinks Ivers brought him on for the fun of it. Apparently, guy's not all there."

Dean sighed. "Oh, this just gets better and better."

"What the hell is he doing there?" Sam exclaimed, looking at Dean. "Do you think that was his plan all along?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "How should I know, Sam? We never really got a chance to find out what the hell his plan was before he hauled us back in time with him."

Sam rubbed two fingers along the bridge of his nose as if trying to press back a headache. "This is our fault, you know."

"How do you figure that?" Dean frowned.

"If we'd just _talked_ to him-"

"Before or after he killed that girl, Sam?" Dean countered. "He was intent on going back that night no matter what anyone said."

Sam sighed, nodding. "You're right," he conceeded. "But now...he's working for the man that killed Bird's dad and is," he lifted his head glancing quickly around, "apparently trying to take over this town. So much for keeping a low profile."

"What's he doing for Ivers?" Dean asked, looking at Zeke.

"I don't know," Zeke replied, his eyes over Dean's shoulder and focused on the saloon, "but I've got a saloon to run, and there just so happens to be a dead body in my store room."

"What about Bird?" Dean asked, looking back toward the Livery.

"Bird's all squared away," Zeke told him. "She's gonna stay up in Sentenza's loft here at the Livery until we figure out a better place."

"Uh, Zeke, about Leo...," Sam started, glancing quickly at Dean.

Dean nodded. "We'd appreciate you…uh…keeping him until night. We can take care of him then."

Zeke shrugged. "I'll just get the undertaker to—"

"No," Dean shook his head, holding up a hand to stop Zeke. "It's okay. He's uh…one of us, and," he looked back toward Sam for support, "there's a certain way he'd want to be buried."

"A time-traveler burial? Do I even want to know?" Zeke asked.

"Probably not," the brothers replied in unison.

"Come on, then," Zeke sighed. "Stella should have an extra room up there. You," he pointed to Sam, "need to eat. And you," he pointed to Dean, narrowing his eyes for added emphasis, "need to let me look at those cuts on your side."

"He used to be a doctor," Sam offered. "In the war."

Dean looked at his brother. "Oh, swell. That makes me feel a ton better."

They followed Zeke across the now-busy street, Dean returning the index-finger-to-the-hat-brim salute offered to him by a few of the men he passed.

"I can't get over how much you look like a freakin' gunslinger," Sam commented as they moved to the swinging doors of the saloon.

"I know," Dean shot him a grin. "Bad-ass, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Why do I think it's just gonna make a complicated situation that much worse?"

"You worry too much, Sam," Dean said, pushing through the saloon doors.

* * *

**a/n: **Ready for more? I'll be posting chapter 5 sooner than Monday; have some things coming up next week that would prevent me from doing so as planned on Monday. Plus, this was a shorter chapter. Hope you're still having fun! It gonna get dicey from here….


	5. Chapter 5

****

Disclaimer/Spoilers:

See Chapter 1.

**a/n**: Thanks so much for reading and a special thanks to everyone who has taken time to leave me a comment. If I haven't replied directly yet, I will. Promise. Real life has me running to stand still a bit lately. I'm really pleased ya'll have picked up on the various scenes, lines, and even names that have been inserted in the story to pay homage to the Westerns I have most enjoyed. There's more where that came from. *grins*

This chapter (and a couple of others yet-to-come) fulfills one of the special requests Kelly made for this story. Some of you may recognize a cameo appearance of another fictional character. If you do, kudos to you. *smile* No crossover classification intended or planned. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

"_I have a very strict gun control policy: if there's a gun around, I want to be in control of it.__"_

_~ Clint Eastwood_

www

_Sulfur Springs, Texas 1870_

Thoughts slipped through the web of his mind as though coated in axel grease, never quite gripping, pausing long enough to tease him with clarity, then skimming away in a blur of color and light, leaving an aftertaste of reason lying heavy in his head.

_I'm here_.

It was the only thing he could hang onto for long. He was here. He wanted to tell Sean, to assure him that it was going to be fine, now, it was all going to be okay…but he couldn't remember where he'd told Sean to go. He was sure he'd hidden him away, safe from all of this. It would come back to him, he knew. Just as every important fact did.

But for now Sean was safe and he was _here_.

The confusing rush of rage and pain that had propelled him away from the dust of an empty paddock area into the cool of the Texas night had subsided. In its place, filling him like a rising tide, was a trembling combination of disbelief and realization: _it had worked_.

He had a job to do. He just had to remember what it was.

Strange smells filled his nostrils. An unfamiliar mixture of manure and mud, alfalfa and sweat brought his cloudy thoughts into a narrowed, perplexing focus. He was standing in a corral, surrounded by sleepy-looking horses. He looked around, seeing a rough-hewn fence with a deep trough of water shoved up against it.

A bewildering sense of utter _openness_ pressed in around him. It was as if the world had been emptied of all superfluous attachments, shaking anything unnecessary loose and leaving only those things necessary for survival. He felt as if he were suffocating on space.

Looking down, he saw a curry brush in his hand and it slowly began to click. He'd maneuvered himself into the corral under the guise of brushing down the horses just turned loose so that he could better spy on the activities of the main house. What he was looking for there, though, slipped through the wide-holed net of purpose in his mind.

He dropped the curry brush in the dirt and patted his pockets, searching for something that might provide him a clue as to his next steps. He came up empty. Again. And then he remembered: he wasn't wearing his own clothes.

His clothes had been shredded. He'd stolen these. He couldn't even remember who he'd taken them from. Plucking at the garments in frustrated confusion, he saw the blood. His hands felt almost coated with it; it seemed to stain his shirt wherever he touched.

The blood of another man's son. The blood of the innocent.

He shouldered two horses aside and plunged his aching hands into the slimy water trough, vexed that he was unable to rid his skin of the sticky substance. He remembered the face…the green eyes filled with hate and panic, the pain in the cry as he cut through the skin.

"Brand!"

Jake brought his head up, irritated at being interrupted. If nothing else, he had to get that kid's blood off of his hands.

"What the hell you doin' out with the horses?"

"Cleanin' up," Jake snarled at a heavy-set man who was sizing him up from beneath bushy eyebrows.

"Well, get your ass up to the house," the man replied, lightly tossing the short leather lash of a riding crop over his shoulder and spitting a stream of brown liquid into the water trough. "Ivers wants you."

Hands dripping, suspended over the trough, Jake glared at the man until he finally turned and left, ambling back the way he'd come. It took Jake a moment to remember: that man was his boss, now. The foreman for Ivers' ranch. He now worked for Ivers. He _wanted_ to work for Ivers. Because Ivers….

_Think, dammit. Why the hell do I give a damn about this Ivers?_

Running his wet palms along the legs of his stolen pants, Jake dragged in a shuddering breath. The world shifted around him and his vision doubled. Leaning against the flank of a Paint horse, he tried to pin down a thought—just _one_ thought—that made sense in the slick maze that was his mind. He'd managed to get here, to this ranch, this house, on purpose.

He just couldn't remember _why_.

A shout caught his attention and he made his way through the cluster of horses to the wooden fence creating the circular corral that penned in the animals. Climbing to the top rung and throwing his leg over, he saw a smaller building attached to a barn. Two men moved from the door of that building carrying a figure between them. He frowned, watching as they made their way to the other side of the building and dropped the figure next to a hole.

A hole dug in the Earth.

"He keeps this up, we're not gonna have enough men," grumbled a rough voice near him.

Jake looked down to see an ancient man, time-worn with wrinkles lining his face in deep creases. "Keeps what up?" he asked.

The man tipped his chin toward the two men who were now swinging the figure—a body, Jake realized slowly—over the hole and dropping it in.

_Dropping it into a grave._

Jake's heart skittered.

_Sean…._

"Ivers killed that one because he asked why we needed so many horses," the man said. "You're new here, right?"

Jake nodded, his head suddenly pounding. He pressed two fingers against his forehead, working to push away the images that beat against the backs of his eyes.

The image of Sean, shredded, bloody, staring up sightlessly.

The image of another man's son, struggling, fighting, bleeding.

The image of face after face as he cut through their skin, broke open their skulls, and pulled out the pivotal piece from inside their heads.

"You want to get old here, keep your head down and your mouth shut," the old man said, then moved slowly toward the grave, tugging his battered hat from his bald head.

Jake closed his eyes against the sight of dirt being tossed in over the body. He pressed his palms against his temples, wanting to stop the noise, wanting to blank out the memories.

_Sean isn't safe. Sean isn't safe at all…._

_Sean is dead._

All he needed was to find it. The weapon. He just had to find it and then he could fix this. He could fix all of this.

He took a deep breath and ran his hands down his face, surprised to find his cheeks wet. Climbing down from the corral fence, he walked slowly toward the main house, trying not to think about the fact that he was the one who'd broken it all in the first place.

www

As they stepped from the bright light of day into the shadows of the saloon, it struck Sam as odd how _normal_ the whole situation felt now that Dean stood next to him.

The surreal quality of the reality he'd opened his eyes to before dawn had now been replaced with a feeling of solidarity and purpose. They'd survived the impossible: time travel. They were now standing in a moment before they had even been ideas; when their great, great grandparents were children.

Now, far removed from No-Tell Motels and empty highways, he and Dean crossed the wood floor of the saloon, their boots hitting a synchronized beat, the sound captured by the slowly-filling establishment.

In the time they'd been away, the saloon had come to life, despite the fact that it was mid-morning. The interior still smelled of dust, whiskey, sweat, and old smoke, but for one unbalanced moment, Sam felt as if he recognized those scents from his regular life. As if there were no other smells he would associate with home, life, heartbeats. Moving in unison with Dean toward the bar, Sam worked to recall the smell of motor oil, gunpowder, leather... _anything_ that had grounded him in the past.

A middle-aged man maneuvered glasses and drinks easily behind the bar and nodded at Zeke as they entered. Sam watched with wry amusement as the man wiped down the overturned shot glasses, then flung the thin white towel over his shoulder. It was implausible, but if he didn't know better, he'd be willing to guess he and Dean were sharing a dream. _That_ at least might make sense.

But reality was bending to fit this new shape of _now_ and Sam was just trying to keep up.

Dirty, weary-looking men in various stages of dress—some clad only in pants, suspenders, and long underwear—graced various tables and he saw a poker game had started at the green felt table nearest the base of the stairs. The man who had approached them at the Livery leaned against the far end of the bar, a mug of beer in front of him, his head hanging low.

_Guess he didn't find Fox and Ray._

"I'll get Stella," Zeke said to them as he moved toward the stairs. "She can rustle up some food for us."

"I ate," Dean waved a hand at him.

Sam leaned on the bar, hooking the heel of his boot on the brass floor runner, and looked at his brother. "You're passing up food?"

Dean removed the black hat and set it on the bar, rubbing the top of his head until his sandy hair stuck up in familiar tufts. "For now," he said, looking at Sam's reflection in the big mirror behind the bar. "Don't suppose they have cheese burger and fries in the old west, do you?"

"I'm guessing no," Sam replied, trying to surreptitiously inspect his brother.

Weary lines drew down Dean's eyes, leveling his mouth into a slight frown as his gaze took in their surroundings. Sam recognized what only someone who'd spent hours alongside another would see: well-masked pain. Dean was hurting, and Sam guessed he was running a fever based on a light sheen of sweat on his brow and a slightly heightened color to his cheeks. But he seemed to be holding it together.

For now.

"Sam." Dean's voice startled him, pulling his eyes forward to meet his brother's in the mirror. "Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything," Sam protested, looking away.

"Relax, okay? I'm not going anywhere," Dean assured him. "Not without you, anyway."

Dean's quiet words shifted a delicate balance inside of Sam's heart. There was only so much _un_reality he could take. He felt the world swim around him, doubling his vision and bringing a sour, wet taste to the back of his mouth as the events of the morning caught up to him.

"Whoa," he breathed, closing his eyes and slowly lowering his forehead to rest on his folded arms, drawing air in slowly.

"Easy, Sammy…slow, deep breaths."

He felt Dean's hand on his back. His muscles instantly eased. He knew that weight, that touch: the blunt fingers digging gently into the cut of his shoulder, the palm heavy and warm.

A hand on his back had been Dean's way of comforting him since Sam had been very young. He never rubbed or patted the way John had when Sam had been scared or upset or sick. There was no motion to distract from the weight. It was just a touch; a simple reassurance that Sam wasn't alone, that he had someone to lean on.

"I'm okay," Sam muttered toward the bar, wincing as the fetid smell of his own breath wafted back at him. "Just…been a long morning."

"You're not wrong there," Dean sighed, lifting his hand.

Sam brought his head up when he heard the sound of a glass hitting the bar near him. "You're drinking?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "When in Rome…," he commented and tossed the shot of amber liquid to the back of his throat. Sam watched tears gather in his eyes as the alcohol hit him and bit back a smile as Dean gasped. "Damn."

"Strong, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean wheezed. "'S good stuff."

He coughed once, banging a fist against his chest, then turned and glanced around the saloon. Sam did a mental count-down as he watched Dean's mouth tip up into a slight grin.

"Dude, I think I like this place," he said, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the poker game.

"Figured you might," Sam replied. He started to reach for the bottle next to Dean's glass, but thought better of it as he stomach rolled slightly. _Food first_, he lectured himself. He'd never been able to hold his liquor as well as his brother.

"All that's missing is a willing woman," Dean glanced at Sam, winking, "or two."

Sam shook his head, smiling at the incorrigible way Dean seemed to gravitate to the same vices, regardless of their location. "Well, Stella? That Zeke went to get?"

"Oh, dude, don't tell me…," Dean closed his eyes in anticipated pleasure, the edges of his mouth tipping upward.

"She runs the brothel," Sam said.

"Scratch that," Dean turned back around, leaning against the counter and pouring himself another shot. "I friggin' _love_ this place."

"You're so easy," Sam shook his head.

"But not cheap," Dean lifted the glass in a slight salute to Sam before sipping the whiskey slowly. "Where do you think they are?"

"Who?"

"The…brothel…ladies," Dean said, looking at Sam's reflection in the mirror. Sam could see him trying to figure out what the term for _prostitutes_ would be in this time period. "Sleepin' late?"

Sam shrugged. "Who knows? It's not even noon. Maybe they don't…y'know…_work_ until it gets dark."

"A man has needs any time of the day," Dean said, his lips pressed forward.

"Easy, cowboy," Sam chuckled. "You might not want to…you know…I mean, with the women…."

Dean glanced up at him, eyes twinkling. "What, Sam?"

Sam felt his cheeks heat up. "You know what I mean."

Blinking innocently, Dean shook his head. "Seriously…drawing a complete blank here."

"There are, y'know…_diseases_, Dean," Sam whispered. "The kind that you might not want to contract if we can't get back to the twentieth century."

Dean started laughing.

"Shut up," Sam grumbled, rethinking his decision to hold off on drinking.

"Loosen up, Sammy," Dean chuckled. "There's plenty to appreciate about women without contracting a _disease_. "

Sam scowled a moment longer, but his disgruntlement at being teased vanished when he caught sight of a woman descending the stairs with Zeke.

"For example," Dean whispered, and Sam knew he'd seen her, too.

"Boys, meet Stella," Zeke said as the duo approached.

Sam felt his mouth go dry, all the dizziness and uncertainty of the last few moments vanishing as blood rushed from his head down, his body reacting to the sight before him.

She was easily old enough to be his mother; the light in her dark eyes held echoes of wisdom only years of experience could gather. Her black hair was piled high in finger-curled ringlets with one or two falling down her nearly-bare back. Her eyes were painted with smudges of dark shadow—just enough that Sam found himself looking longer as if afraid she'd expose her secrets the moment he dared to blink.

Her lips curved up in a smile as she glanced from Sam to Dean.

"Eyes up," she ordered, her throaty voice betraying a hint of humor. "Those don't say much."

Confused, Sam glanced over at Dean and watched as his brother dragged his gaze slowly from Stella's barely-concealed, ample breasts up to her face with considerable effort. Sam skidded a glance down the rest of her body, noting the black corseted waist and deep red skirt that ended at her well-muscled calves exposing netted stockings and high-heeled, lace-up boots. She wasn't tiny; he didn't think his hands would span her waist even with the corset.

But her curves left him thirsty.

"Ma'am," the brothers nodded in unison.

"Oh, Ma'am, is it?" She glanced at Zeke. "What lies are you telling this time?"

Zeke held his hands up in surrender, his eyebrows hitting his hairline. "Haven't said a word. I swear."

Stella looked back at the brothers, her smile knowing as she skimmed Dean's face, then softening as she rested her gaze on Sam. "Zeke says you boys need some help," she said. Sam nodded. Dean didn't move. "I have food and an empty bed. Which one do you want first?"

Sam heard the low-throated whimper Dean tried to suppress and had to give his brother credit for reining in his obvious desire to crank the Winchester charm up to eleven.

"Food would be great, Ms…," Sam replied.

"Just Stella," she replied with a grin. "I left the _Missus_ with my man, and he ain't coming back. So Stella it is."

"Why don't you get Sam some food," Zeke suggested. "I'll just take Dean back and check out those cuts."

"I'll go with you," Sam spoke up.

Dean blinked over at him, but stayed quiet. The fact that he didn't protest—didn't wave Sam off with a _you worry too much_ comment—cemented Sam's resolve.

"You need to eat something, Sam," Zeke said. "I know for a fact you're running on nothing but whiskey."

"Whiskey for breakfast, Sammy?" Dean smirked.

"I've been hanging around you too much," Sam replied. He glanced over at Zeke. "I can eat back there with you."

Zeke shrugged. "Suit yourself." He tipped his chin up at Stella. "You know where my room is."

As if their heads were on a joint swivel, the brothers looked between Zeke and Stella, landing on the brothel madam, whose lips were curled into the grin of a cat.

"Indeed, I do," she replied. "See you boys in a bit."

The brothers looked back at Zeke as she walked away. Zeke grinned, looking more than pleased with himself. "This job does have its perks."

"No shit," Dean muttered. He met Sam's eyes. "Why are we trying to leave again?"

Sam raised an eyebrow, then started ticking off his fingers one by one. "Impala, Metallica, bottled beer, movies—"

Dean raised his hands in surrender. "You win, you win."

Zeke started back toward the doors that led to the store room. "You mean to tell me that beer is in…_bottles_ where you come from?"

Dean clapped Zeke on the shoulder. "Oh, the things I could tell you, man."

"But you won't!" Sam protested, close behind.

"But I won't," Dean sighed with a pretense of dejection.

Zeke pushed through the storeroom door and veered left toward the shelves, leaving the brothers in full view of Leo's body. In the thrill of getting Dean back, Sam had almost forgotten the dead hunter and his stomach tightened at the sight. He felt Dean go still next to him. It wasn't ever easy, seeing the body of someone they knew.

Even someone that'd had a hand in getting them into this mess.

"I almost said we gotta call Dad," Dean said softly.

Sam looked over at him quickly, seeing the frown set in deeper as his brother's eyes seemed to reflect a foreign pain that Sam found he couldn't connect to.

"He's not gonna be happy about this…y'know, if he ever finds out," Dean continued. "This guy was a friend of his."

"I thought you said you didn't think they were friends," Sam countered.

Dean slid a look to him out of the corner of his eyes. "You know Dad, man. They both wore the uniform. Makes them practically brothers in his book."

Zeke continued to fill his arms with random supplies pulled from various points on the storage shelves, glancing over his shoulder at Dean. "Your father was a soldier, too?"

Sam absorbed the way Dean's eyes cut from Zeke's face, to the blue jacket on Sam's body, then back, an understanding filtering through inside of a heartbeat of time. He gave his brother serious flack for his vices, but he had to credit him this: the guy was observant.

More so than Sam thought anyone realized.

"Yeah, he was a soldier," Dean replied, dropping his chin, then glancing back up at Zeke. "Different war, though."

Zeke let out his breath and his shoulders seemed to sag a bit.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Shrugging, Zeke's eyes tracked with a disconcerting emptiness back to Leo's body. "Just a bit…depressing to know that even a hundred years from now…there's still war."

Sam looked down at his hands, the thin, white scars there testament to his own battles.

"There's always gonna be something to fight for," Dean said quietly. "And someone to fight against."

Taking that in, Zeke moved past the body and toward the door that connected the store room to his bedroom. The brothers followed.

"Speaking of…," Zeke said, setting the supplies in his arms down on top of the dresser. "You boys thought about how you're gonna get to your friend while he's working for Ivers?" He gestured with a flick of his finger for Dean to sit on his bed.

Dean complied, removing the black duster and dropping it over the wrought-iron footboard of the bed as he did so. His gun belt followed. With deliberate slowness, he started tugging his borrowed black shirt free from his waistband. Sam put his back to a wall and slid down, making himself comfortable on the floor, out of the way, where he could watch Zeke work and keep an eye on Dean.

"Not really," Sam confessed. Replaying the fight he and Dean had overheard inside the old mission before everything went to Hell, he recalled Max yelling at Jake about finding a weapon that didn't exist. "Whatever he's looking for…he's gotta think it's there with Ivers," he muttered to himself. "He's not gonna just…leave."

"He will if we make him," Dean grumbled.

Sam focused on his brother, catching the barely-concealed wince in Dean's voice. Dean unbuttoned the black shirt and slid it free of his shoulders, exposing his bare upper torso. Sam sucked in his breath as he caught sight of his brother's wounded side.

"Jesus—"

"—Christ." Zeke finished the curse.

Sam was on his feet before he registered standing. "What the _hell_, man!"

Dean glared at him. "Don't start, Sam."

"You couldn't have said anything earlier?"

"And when would I have done that?" Dean shot back, his voice hard and his eyes flinty. "When I was trying to figure out if you were alive or dead while also not scaring the _shit_ out of the kid that found me? Or, hey, maybe when we were riding back to town—"

"I get the idea," Sam snapped back, his voice matching his brother's in tone and ferocity. "It just looks…."

"Bad," Zeke said.

One arm around his middle, the other hand up near his mouth, Zeke took a step back, tapping his fingers against his lips as if in thought as he sized up Dean's wounds. The shallow cuts that Sam hadn't stitched were crusted over with scabs, the skin around them swollen and bright pink. The two longer, deeper cuts that Sam had sewn were now puffed up around the stitches and the skin was rolling between the sutures, exposing the torn flesh.

"Who stitched you up?"

"I did," Sam replied as Dean leaned back on one hand as he surrendered to Zeke's scrutiny.

"You did a good job."

"He's had a lot of practice," Dean muttered, his fever-bright eyes hitting Sam's face.

Zeke took a breath. "What did this to you, Dean?"

Sam caught his brother's eyes. _We can't_.

Dean raised an eyebrow. _What's it gonna hurt, Sam?_

Sam shook his head once. _No, Dean. _

"You boys want me to give you a minute?" Zeke looked between them.

Sam sighed. "It's complicated."

Zeke nodded carefully. "Mm-hmm, I see." Tilting his head to the side, he regarded Sam with narrowed eyes, his voice laced with pointed sarcasm. "More complicated than traveling a hundred years back in time?"

"Well, not exactly, but—"

"Or, how about more complicated than the fact that the man in my store room died before he was even born?"

Sam licked his lips. "We, uh…have kind of a weird job."

Zeke arched an eyebrow. "Define…weird."

"We hunt evil," Dean replied, his voice without leeway.

"Evil?" Zeke replied, pursing his lips as he looked back at Dean.

Dean nodded. "Monsters, ghosts, werewolves…," he looked at Sam, "demons. If you've had a nightmare about it, we've hunted it."

Sam watched Zeke carefully, noting the way the color seemed to slowly escape the man's face. "Kid, my nightmares are about an entirely different kind of monster."

Sam frowned as Dean replied softly, "I believe you."

"So…," Sam started, stepping forward and carefully touching the saloon owner's shoulder, drawing his attention. "You're…okay with this?"

Zeke huffed out a rough laugh. "No, I'm not _okay_ with it." He flapped his arms against his sides in impotent frustration. "I'm not okay with _any_ of this!"

Sam looked at his brother, trying to figure out how long Dean could last if they had to escape the tenuous protection of this man and his saloon.

"But unless I'm caught in one helluva vivid dream," Zeke continued, "you're here, with me, in my room. And I have no other explanation for what I'm seeing except that…you're _not_ lying to me."

"We're not lying," Dean said tiredly.

"In that case, let me ask again," Zeke pressed. "What did this to you?"

"It's called a Daeva," Sam replied.

"Uh…huh," Zeke nodded slowly.

Dean rolled his neck tiredly, but stayed quiet, so Sam continued.

"They're…ancient demons. The word actually means _demon of darkness_."

"Think demonic attack dogs," Dean offered.

"Right," Sam nodded.

"And you fought them?" Zeke shot his eyes between the brothers.

Sam nodded. "Didn't actually…_defeat_ them, but fought them off."

"How?"

"Sammy lit a flare," Dean grinned proudly. "Cut through all their darkness and chased them off."

"A flare?" Zeke's brows practically met across the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, it's a…y'know, what? Forget it. The point is, these bastards had wicked long…talon thingies and they weren't afraid to use them," Dean said.

Zeke's eyes went to Sam's cheek. "Those scratches," he concluded.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, but…these scratches," he gestured to his face, "and the ones on your forehead…they're practically healed."

"So, what did you do differently with them?" Zeke asked.

"Nothing!" Sam exclaimed. "Dean…passed out and I cleaned his side. He woke up when I was stitching him up."

Dean was frowning. "Sammy…."

"What?"

"What'd you use?"

"For…what?"

"To clean out the cuts."

Sam shrugged. "Antiseptic, soap…."

"And the Holy Water, right?"

Sam literally felt the blood drain from his face. It left his skin feeling tingly, as if miniature needles were being rolled across his cheeks. "The…what?"

Dean looked down, his body appearing to bow. "It's my fault, dude," he said in a rough voice. "I put the extra Holy Water in the spare antiseptic bottle."

"I can't believe I didn't think about that." Sam closed his eyes, his fingers going to his forehead as a headache worked its way through his skull. He felt a hand on his shoulder and knew instantly that it was Zeke's.

"Sam, sit down," the man ordered. "You look kinda pale there, kid."

Sam opened his eyes. "Ya think? This isn't something I should miss, Zeke!"

"Sam," Dean tried. "Calm down. It's okay…."

"It's _not_ okay!" Sam protested, feeling ire at himself build heat behind his eyes. "This shit was _drilled_ into us, man. I should have thought of this."

"We were both kinda messed up that night, Sam," Dean reminded him. "And besides, you were…."

"What? I was what?" Sam challenged.

"I was gonna say you were away from the routine for awhile."

Sam held himself still, his stomach churning. "I've been back long enough," he said quietly.

"I coulda double checked," Dean shrugged. "Neither of us is perfect, man. Shit like this…it happens."

"It _shouldn't_ happen," Sam said in a low, dangerous voice. Guilt and self-punishment were turning his guts to ice. "You wouldn't have let it happen to me."

"Hey. Hey! Listen to me, okay?" Dean ordered, apparently ignoring the last missive. "It's gonna be fine. We got us a doctor—"

"I _used to be_ a doctor," Zeke corrected.

"Good enough," Dean replied. "Better than we usually have. Anyway, we'll just head up to the Mission, get some Holy Water—"

"Ramirez is gone, Dean," Sam reminded him dully.

"Huh?" Dean's eyebrows puckered over the bridge of his nose.

"No priest, no Holy Water," Sam continued. "Unless you memorized the rite and have a rosary in your boot so we could bless the water ourselves."

"Uh, no," Dean confessed. "Always had Dad…or his journal."

"Or a church nearby," Sam said softly.

Dean blew his air out slowly. "Okay, then we'll improvise."

"With _what_?"

"Easy, dude." Dean held up a hand. "I've made it this far, haven't I?"

Sam turned away, shoving his fingers through his hair. Facing the wall, he balled up his hand into a fist and slammed it, hard, against the wood.

"Hey!" Zeke exclaimed. "I don't need two patients!"

"Shouldn't even have _one_," Sam muttered. "Dad will kick my ass for this."

"So we don't tell him," Dean countered.

"Not the point," Sam said, sliding down the wall, his knees tented, arms hanging across them.

"Okay, Dean," Zeke replied, visibly shifting away from disbelieving wonder to the business at hand. "I'm gonna just…deal with this like any other infected wound. We'll cross the whole Holy Water bridge when we come to it. Deal?"

Dean nodded, "Deal," he said wearily.

"Lie back against the pillows," Zeke ordered as he poured water into the basin on the dresser and began to roll up his sleeves.

As Dean obeyed, there was a brisk knock on the door and before any of the men could move, Stella stepped through carrying a tray of food. Sam started to get up.

"Sit yourself down," Stella ordered, kicking the door closed behind her. "Do I look like some wilting flower to you?"

"No, ma'am," Sam replied, watching as she knelt carefully next to him and set down the tray of biscuits and stew.

"Do I smell coffee?" Dean called out.

"You do," Stella confirmed, standing up and making her way over to the bed. Sam watched as she lightly trailed her hand across Zeke's back and moved to the foot of the bed where she could better see Dean. "And from the looks of you, you're gonna need something a lot stronger."

"No more whiskey," Zeke shook his head, picking up Dean's wrist and pressing two fingers against his pulse point, frowning.

"No offense, doc," Dean grunted, trying to sit up. Sam saw that once he was down, forcing his stomach muscles to work was not an easy task. "But if you're gonna do what I _think_ you're gonna do…I'd rather not be sober."

"I am," Zeke replied, "but the last thing you need is to dehydrate from too much alcohol. You've lost blood, your color is for shit, and your pulse is racing. Trust me on this—liquor would be a bad, bad thing. "

Dean sagged against the pillows. "Always used whiskey in the movies," he muttered to himself.

"You're going to take the stitches out, aren't you?" Sam asked, pushing the food aside.

Dean continued to grumble. "Least give a guy a piece of leather to bite on…maybe a bullet?"

"Dean," Sam snapped, watching Zeke inspect Dean's wound. "They're not giving you a damn bullet."

"Why not? Phrase had to come from somewhere…."

"What phrase?" Zeke asked, distractedly

"Bite the bullet! Guys are always biting on something to deal with the pain in—"

"No bullet!" Sam yelled, causing Dean to flinch in surprise.

"Take it easy, Sam," he said softly. "I was just—"

"I _know_ what you're trying to do, Dean," Sam said, rubbing at his aching temple. The pain felt like the onset of a vision, but deeper, duller. The kind of headache that declared it was going to hang around for awhile. "But it's not gonna help. I screwed up and you're paying the price."

He saw Zeke and Stella exchange a look.

"Sam, why don't you come on out here with me?" Stella asked, crouching in front of him and giving him an unobstructed view of her bosom.

"No," Sam snapped. "Sorry, but I'm not leaving him."

"You need to eat; Zeke knows how to take care of your brother," Stella put a hand lightly on his arm.

"Stella," Sam said, feeling the edge of his voice cut through the air between them. "I know you're just trying to help, but I'm. not. leaving. him."

Sighing, Stella looked up at Zeke. The saloon owner shrugged and tipped his head toward the door. "Make sure everyone plays nice out there," he said. "I'll let you know if we need anything."

"All right, Sugar," she said, standing. She tossed another look at Dean, winked at Sam, then left.

"Since you're here, you may as well help," Zeke said, his freshly-scrubbed hands still dripping as he reached for a small linen towel. "Get that clear bottle off the dresser and bring it here."

"What is it?" the brothers asked in unison.

"Chloroform," Zeke replied. "Used it on plenty of soldiers during the war, Dean."

"I'll be okay," Dean replied quickly.

Sam turned from the dresser at the sound of panic in Dean's voice. His brother's face was so pale the freckles across his nose stood out like constellations. His eyes were wide and the sheen of sweat Sam had noticed earlier now coated Dean's chest and belly.

"He doesn't like drugs much," Sam said, handing the bottle to Zeke, not taking his eyes from Dean's face. "Can you try without it?"

"I won't lie to you," Zeke said, his voice a sigh, as he set the bottle down on the edge of the dresser nearest Sam. He turned to the wash basin and rolled up his sleeves. "It's gonna hurt like a bitch on fire."

"I'll be okay," Dean repeated, shaking his head stubbornly.

"We'll _try_ it," Zeke said, scrubbing his hands and forearms. "I'm going to take out the stitches, drain the infection, and pack the wound. I'll have Bird mix up some herbs for you that should help."

"Herbs aren't Holy Water," Sam said grimly, moving to the head of the bed.

"Don't worry about it Sammy," Dean said, teeth clenched as he anticipated the pain. A tremble ran through his body.

_Hell, yes, I'm worried about it_. Sam caught his lower lip in his teeth to keep the automatic retort from flinging itself free.

"You ready?" Zeke asked Dean.

"Let's do this thing," Dean grunted.

Sam bounced his eyes between Dean's face and Zeke's hands as the former doctor began to clean the skin around the puckered wounds. Dean groaned and his eyes slammed shut. Sam worked to breathe carefully, in through his nose, out through his mouth forcing himself to calm down. His heartbeat was slamming against the base of his throat.

"So, I've been thinking," he said as casually as he could.

"That's…never…good," Dean forced out, working to balance the tone Sam set for the conversation.

Hoping that Zeke wouldn't pay too close attention to what they said, Sam continued, "Maybe we don't need Jake to get home."

"H-how do you…ah! Son of a _bitch_," Dean exclaimed as Zeke carefully clipped the first stitch. The first of eighteen. "How d-do you f-figure?"

"It was a spell, right?" Sam said, watching as Zeke reached for the bottle of chloroform and a folded handkerchief. Catching the former doctor's eyes, Sam shook his head. _Not yet_. Zeke frowned at him and moved back to Dean's side. "Maybe we figure out a counter spell."

Dean began to puff air through his mouth, his body twitching as he instinctively tried moved away from the pain, but continued to hold himself as still as possible. Sam watched his brother's hands grip the sheet on the bed as Zeke slid a towel next to Dean's side to catch the pus that began to leak from the re-opened wound.

"There's gotta be some…books. At that Mission, maybe. Or someone around here who can—"

Sam's ramble was cut off as Dean cried out, his voice ragged from pain. His hand shot up as if to instinctively push away the thing that was hurting him and Sam caught it, gripping it tightly with his own. He could feel Dean's body shake and pulled his brother's hand against his chest, pressing it tightly.

"I got you, man," Sam soothed. "I got you."

"Gah…dammit, Sam…this fuckin' _hurts_," Dean gasped.

"I know," Sam nodded, resting his other hand lightly on Dean's head, wiping away some of the sweat that ran into his brother's eyes and tented his lashes. "I know…you just hang in there, okay?"

"One done," Zeke said in a low, tense voice.

Sam shot a look down at Dean's side and saw that one of the cuts was now free of stitches. He exhaled slowly.

"Okay, just one more, okay, Dean? Hang in there, man."

"This is…uh…this might hurt…more," Zeke said in an attempted warning.

Sam looked back again and saw what he was about to do: flush the infection from the wound. His stomach rolled over at the thought of Dean feeling every bit of that process.

"Easy," Zeke breathed out and then pressed the tips of his fingers on either side of the swollen cut, watery fluid and thick, greenish-white infection oozing free of Dean's body, followed by a sluggish flow of blood.

Dean's cry of pain sounded as if it were pulled from his gut, starting low with teeth clenched against release then rolling upward until it all-but exploded from him.

"Nnnnnnnarrgggahhhh!" Dean gasped, his sweat-soak face turning away from Sam. "Argh…son of a _fucking_ bitch…" His curses were quick pants for air, helpless and angry.

Zeke withdrew his hands, breathing heavy, then lifted a fresh towel and began to gently clean the area around the wound. Still holding tightly to Dean's hand, Sam watched as Zeke lifted a bottle of whiskey, confused that he'd changed his mind.

Until he saw that he was going to pour it over the wound.

_Screw this._

"Dean!" Sam barked. Dean jerked, turning his head slightly on the pillow. "Look at me. Now."

Dean opened his eyes and Sam felt his stomach clench at the pain he saw there.

"I'm not going to let you go, okay?" As Sam spoke, he reached with his free hand for the chloroform bottle. "I'm gonna be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He breathed a quick sigh of relief as he saw that Zeke realized what he was doing and had poured a small amount of liquid onto the handkerchief, then handed it to Sam.

"I'm s-sorry, man," Dean gasped. "Sh-shoulda listened…t-to you…not gone in after J-Jake…without a p-plan."

"Hey, hey," Sam shook his head, gripping Dean's sweaty hand tighter. "It's okay. Did you hear me coming up with a plan? Hell no! We did okay back there, Dean. We saved that girl."

Dean closed his eyes, nodding his head once. "We d-did."

"Damn right we did," Sam nodded, though Dean couldn't see him. Keeping the handkerchief well away from himself, he moved it closer to Dean's face. "Big damn hero, man," he said softly, then eased the rag over Dean's nose and mouth.

Dean's eyes flew open and he tensed, his grip crushing Sam's hand.

"Easy!" Sam soothed. "Easy, man. Just breathe, okay? It's okay. I'm right here. Just breathe."

Eyes slowly clouding, Dean's grip relaxed and when his lids fluttered shut, Sam started to remove the rag.

"Wait," Zeke coached softly. "Just wait a moment."

After another heartbeat, Sam felt the tremble in Dean's body slow and glanced back at Zeke, who nodded. Sam removed the rag and lowered Dean's hand. Dean's face was lax, his mouth slightly parted, his tented lashes shadowing pale cheeks. Zeke pressed two fingers against Dean's throat, checking his pulse, then nodded.

"You did good, Sam," Zeke praised him, taking the rag from Sam and setting it and the chloroform bottle on the other side of the room. As he passed the narrow window, he shoved it up an inch, allowing fresh air to filter in. "Real good. Coulda used you with me in the war."

Sam slid to his knees beside the bed, his legs refusing to hold him. "No way," Sam shook his head. "There's no way."

"Just take a breath," Zeke said, turning his attention back to Dean's side. "Sit down and shove your head between your legs if you have to, but do _not_ pass out on me."

"I'm not gonna," Sam said, rolling away from the scent of the chloroform, blood, and sweat. He leaned against the wall, his head back. "How bad is it, really?"

"I've seen worse," Zeke said. "Not often, but I've seen it."

"Think you can fix him?" Sam swallowed, embarrassed by how close tears were to the surface.

"Well…if this were a…knife wound, yes," Zeke said, his voice undulating as he worked. "But I don't know about those David things."

"Daeva," Sam corrected.

"Right."

"He never said anything," Sam said, closing his eyes and letting his feet slip until his legs were straight out in front of him. "When he got hurt…he never said anything."

"He make a habit of that?" Zeke asked, his voice tight as Sam heard more snipping of stitches.

Sam huffed. "He's my big brother," he said softly. "So…yeah, kinda."

For several moments, quiet ruled the room. Sam listened to Dean's ragged breathing, to the muffled noise of the saloon, to the movement of Zeke's hands. He knew they had to find Jake. He knew there was really no other way to get home. But he was in foreign territory and coming up with a plan seemed almost impossible. He reached for the biscuit on the tray, chewing without thought.

"You okay?" Zeke asked suddenly.

Sam looked up. "Yeah."

"You're…quiet."

"I'm thinking."

"You just haven't been…quiet," Zeke shrugged. "You run out of questions?"

"There's only two that matter anymore," Sam shrugged.

Zeke's eyes softened. "I don't think I have the answer to either of them."

Sam sighed. "Any idea where we can find Ramirez?"

Zeke shook his head, then started to clean up his supplies. "I'm sorry, kid."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "If you did…would you tell me?"

Zeke looked surprised. "Why would you ask me that?"

"Just wondering if you'd…pick keeping the priest safe from Ivers over saving my brother."

Zeke's eyes cut over to Dean. "Fair enough." He wrapped a bandage loosely around Dean's middle, his face tense, serious. "I've drained the infection and packed the worst of the cuts. We'll have to check it pretty frequently…make sure the infection is continuing to drain. He should sleep for a few hours. Probably have a headache when he wakes up. I'll get Bird to help out with something for his pain. You should get some rest yourself—after you eat."

Sam watched the man move around the room, packing away the medical supplies. Zeke put his hand on the door knob, then paused, his shoulders bowing slightly. Sam waited. After a moment, Zeke looked over at him.

"I became a doctor because I wanted to save lives," he said. "The war…changed that. I lost more than I saved."

Sam simply watched him.

"It…broke something. Inside me." Zeke looked down his jaw line tightening. "That day I saved Ramirez from Ivers was like…finding the missing pieces." He grabbed Sam's eyes with his own. "I won't let your brother die."

"I'm glad to hear it," Sam replied softly, feeling his being relax at the words.

With a final nod, Zeke moved into the now-bustling interior of the saloon, closing the door behind him. With a tired sigh, Sam leaned against the bed, reaching up and resting his hand on top of Dean's limp one.

www

There was a brief moment of clarity when he registered that he was shifting from oblivion into the tumultuous confines of a dream, but before he could hold onto that assurance—before he could convince himself that none of this was real—he was falling.

There was light above him—brilliant with the promise of warmth and safety. But he was tumbling backward, away from it. He flung his hands out, but came in contact with something smooth, slick, wet. Nothing to grasp, nothing to hold.

Blood.

He could smell it around him. On him. His fingers skidded through it as he flailed, trying desperately to cease the dizzying sensation of falling. He looked up; the light was still there, just as far away, just as close. And still he fell.

_Sam!_

He called out, forced the sound from his gut, the word tripping against his throat, but he heard nothing. His voice was stolen by the fall, by the smell of the blood, by the sense that any moment he would slam against the ground and it would be over.

_DAD! Sam!_

Nothing. He began to kick out, feeling madness dig greedy fingers into his heart, gripping and pulling at his skin. Chaos bubbled up inside him, gleefully stripping his bones of its protective skin. He fought, every cell in his body throwing up a shield against the invasion.

But still he fell, his fingers coated in blood, the smell wrapping around him, the light too far away to save him.

"Shhhhh…."

A cool, soft hand stroked his forehead.

"Sam…." He felt his mouth move around the word. He heard the whisper of his own voice.

"Shhhh, it's okay."

Dean's eyes popped open and he jerked to awareness, groaning in reaction to the instinctive movement. The fingers of the dream reluctantly released their grip. Silver light spun around him, filtering in from somewhere to his right. Its presence confused him. He was awake...right? If he was awake, why was the light still there? If the light was there, where was the blood?

He curled his fingers against the palms of his hands, feeling as if his hands belonged to someone else. His head felt as though it was caught in a vice, his skull working to crush the gray matter within.

"Take it easy. I'll get your brother."

He smelled her before he focused on her: sugar, whiskey, and tobacco.

"Stella," he managed, the sound like sandpaper on rocks.

"Hey there," Stella greeted him, her honeyed voice coating the sharp edges of awareness. "Some dream you were having."

"What…what…," he couldn't find the next word. His memory was like a skipping record, searching repeatedly for the one thing that he couldn't grasp.

_Something isn't right._

He hurt. Everywhere. And his heart was slamming against his ribs so hard he was certain it was going to break free. For horrifying moment he was certain that he was going to be sick. He pulled in a shallow breath, willing the bile to retreat back to his stomach where it belonged.

"Zeke said you might be a little confused—chloroform does that to people sometimes," Stella said, sliding a hand beneath his neck and tipping his head forward until his lips met the edge of a glass. "Here, drink this. It's from Bird. She said to tell you it won't make you sleepy this time."

He drank greedily, memories flowing back through the fog as the water filled his aching insides.

_Infection…wound…stitches…chloroform…_.

"Sam?"

"He's out there," Stella tipped her head toward the saloon. "Finally got him to leave you for a bit."

"How long?" He hadn't meant to sound quite so desperate; he was glad Sam had been convinced to leave the tiny room. But he wanted him back. Now.

"You slept through the day," Stella replied, misinterpreting his question. "You hungry?"

Dean closed his eyes, thinking. "Yeah."

"Feel like getting up?"

"Yeah," he whispered, not yet fully trusting his voice. "But, I—"

"It's okay, Dean," Stella soothed him with a pat on the leg and a softening of her large eyes. "I'll go get your brother," she repeated, seemingly picking up on his need for this reassurance.

"What's he doing out there?"

"Lightening the pockets of a few n'er-do-wells." Stella smiled her cat smile once again. He suddenly, irrationally, wanted to know what her lips tasted like. "Pretty decent card player, that kid."

Dean grinned weakly. "Taught him everything he knows."

"He said that," Stella said. "You wait here."

She was out of the room before he could tell her not to worry. He wasn't going anywhere fast.

He shot a cautious look over to his right. It was the moon. Moonlight was slipping through the wavy glass in the narrow window. _The moon_. It was only the moon, not a phantom specter looking to deprive him of safety.

_Get a grip, Dean._

Taking a slow, deep breath, he ran his hands carefully down his body, skipping lightly over his left side. He felt the packing beneath the bandage, the skin tender even under the wrapping. Mentally bracing himself, he rolled slowly to his right side, the movement stealing his breath and sending shivers coursing through him. He made it to a seated position, his legs off the bed and his boots solid on the floor, when Sam came in.

"Hey!" Sam greeted, a sunny grin complete with dimples lighting up his face. "You're awake!"

"Hey yourself, Fast Eddie." Dean returned his grin. "I hear you've been collecting some antique cash."

Sam chuckled. "The cards…Dean, they don't have any numbers on them."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "And yet you still managed to win a hand or two."

Sam made a face at him, then his eyes skimmed Dean's bare chest, resting on the bandages.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," Dean replied truthfully, then caught sight of Sam's expression. "But, uh…kinda better."

"Really?" Sam looked so hopeful that Dean didn't have the heart to be completely honest with him.

_Why not let him believe for awhile longer?_

There was something wrong inside; Dean could feel it tremble through him. He had no idea what happened when cuts from an ancient demon went untreated by Holy Water, but he was starting to get a pretty decent idea that it wasn't anything good.

"Yeah, really," he replied, infusing the words with false bravado. "Hand me that shirt."

Sam did and Dean worked to keep his motions fluid, relaxed as he slid his arms through the sleeves and fastened the buttons. He didn't bother tucking it in quite yet.

"Gotta piss like a racehorse," he complained.

Sam's grin was wry. "You gotta go outside."

"I was afraid of that."

"Need some help?"

Dean glanced at his brother.

"Getting to the outhouse, I mean."

"Nah," he bluffed. "I'm good." He started to push to his feet. The room tipped crazily to the side and Sam was next to him in an instant.

"Whoa," Dean breathed.

"I gotcha," Sam promised softly.

"You _drugged _me, man," Dean accused as Sam steadied him. "That was low."

"You telling me you _wanted_ to feel him clean out those cuts?"

Remembering the gut-twisting pain, Dean tipped his head in concession. "Okay, no. Hey—where's my gun?"

"Here." Without question or comment, Sam handed him the holster, the shiny Colt tucked safely inside.

Bracing his legs apart so that he didn't sway, Dean tucked the black shirt into his waistband to get it out of the way, then strapped the Colt and holster around his hips. He felt more balanced, solid, with the weapon close to his body.

"Okay, where to?"

"Out back, across from the Livery," Sam said, leading him out of Zeke's room, along the edge of the now-bustling saloon, and toward the back door.

Dean's legs felt hollow, his chest made of glass. Each breath stretched his skin uncomfortably, and his head ached. But taken as a whole, he felt better being upright and mobile than lying on that narrow bed in Zeke's room. He caught sight of the former doctor behind the bar pouring a shot for one man while talking to another, his eyes constantly moving until they landed on Stella.

The heat Dean caught in that glance had him looking away, eyes skimming across the rest of the humanity filling the saloon. He smelled their sweat, their dirt, the alcohol on their breath. Making his way behind his brother, he imagined he could even feel their worry, their weariness, their fear as if something in the room with them had everyone on edge.

As they paused briefly at the door for Sam to pull it open, Dean felt eyes on him and glanced to his left, seeing a man at a poker table, slouched low in the curved-back chair, dressed all in black—much like Dean. His lips were pushed out, flattened in thought, his eyes oddly bright under the shade of his short-brimmed hat. He nodded once at Dean, who tipped his chin up in recognition of the greeting.

"Sam." Dean plucked his brother's sleeve.

"Yeah?"

"Who's that guy?" He nodded to the left, watching as Sam's eyes tracked in the correct direction.

"The guy in black?"

"Yeah." Dean followed his brother outside into the bracing, surprisingly fresh air of the Texas night.

"Name's Larabee," Sam said. "Stella said he was passing through town. Only one that beat me, by the way."

"You play Texas Hold 'em?" Dean teased.

"Funny," Sam grinned, nodding forward. "Outhouse is there. Just, uh…hold your breath."

"Swell," Dean sighed, grateful that the dark hid his sudden shiver. "Don't suppose they have showers around here?"

"Found out they have a bath house down thataway," Sam jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Seems kinda weird…taking a bath with a bunch of other guys."

"Never known you to be shy, Sammy."

"Dude, you're my _brother_. It's totally different."

Dean chuckled softly. "Maybe we won't be here long enough."

"Tell you one thing," Sam sighed, kicking the toe of his boot into the dirt. "Already miss my toothbrush."

"Me too," Dean slid him a sidelong glance, then gathered himself.

Moving was an easier task when he made it automatic. Thinking about it triggered a fire-brand of pain through his chest and back, slicing across his shoulders and slipping up his neck into his hairline before he even took a step.

_Don't think…don't think…just move_.

He opened the door of the outhouse and stopped breathing, blanking his mind to the specifics of his task. When he was done he stepped out into the fresh air, catching sight of his little brother leaning against an empty hitching rail, moonlight striking his face and tucking his eyes into pockets of shadow.

In the silvery light, for one horrifying second, Sam looked almost like a ghost.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Dean called back. Something caught his eye on the other side of the Livery, wrapped in what appeared to be a sheet, lying in the back of a wagon. "What's that?"

"Leo," Sam answered, making his way forward until he was standing next to Dean. "Zeke and me wrapped him up, loaded the wagon with a block of salt. They don't, uh…well, rock salt comes in a slightly different form."

"'Course it does," Dean said softly. "You have wood?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "Seems…I don't know…weird to just burn him out in the middle of nowhere. No tombstone…or graveyard…."

"He was a hunter, Sammy," Dean reminded him. "You remember what Dad said. There's no consecrated ground for the body of a hunter." He rested his eyes on the small, still body that had once been a man with a history and a family and a home. "One day, we'll all end up that way."

Sam shook his head. "I don't want to think about that."

"Why not? It's true," Dean said softly, watching his brother.

"I don't care!" Sam turned his ghost-face toward Dean once more, his eyes dark shadows in the moonlight. "I don't want to think about…burning the bodies of my family on some funeral pyre in the middle of nowhere. It's not gonna happen to us."

"Sammy—"

"It's not, okay?" Sam snapped.

Dean quieted, running his tongue across his lower lip, thinking.

"Zeke tell you where we could take him?" he asked eventually.

Sam nodded.

Dean sighed. "You want to do this now?"

Sam looked at the wagon. "I don't know how to hitch up the horses."

"I do," came a small voice from the shadow of the building.

The brothers turned. Bird stepped into the moonlight, shrinking back slightly as an especially loud shout echoed from inside the saloon. Dean grinned at the sight of her. Someone—Zeke or Stella, he guessed—had given her a clean change of clothes and her face was dirt-free, her short hair tucked behind her ears.

"Hey, Bird."

"You want horses?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, moving toward her. "You can help us?"

She nodded and ducked back into the barn.

Feeling eyes on him, Dean glanced at his brother. "What?"

"You're not okay, are you?" Sam's voice was subdued.

Dean looked at him, weighing his options. He waited too long, however, because the light in Sam's eyes shifted, turning dark.

"I got this, Dean."

"Don't be stu—"

"I'll help him," Bird chimed in from the front of the wagon. The huff of horses and jingle of rigging echoed her declaration.

"What is this, a conspiracy?" Dean searched the shadows for the girl. "You don't even know what he's going to do."

"You think I don't recognize a body when I see one?"

Dean pressed his lips together, looking at the ground. "Bird…."

"Go back inside, Dean," Sam said, putting a hand on his arm. "I'll take care of Leo and come right back."

"I don't like this, Sam," Dean confessed. He didn't like not feeling strong enough to do his job. He didn't like Sam going off by himself. He didn't like the almost tangible countdown he could feel inside his own body.

"Yeah, I know," Sam sighed. "But…I came here with him."

Dean frowned. "So?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Kinda feels like poetic justice, I guess. Me burying him."

"What do you—"

"If you think about it," Sam rested his eyes on Leo's body, something crossing his face that cut into Dean's heart. "He's only here because of me."

"That's bullshit, Sam."

Sam shook his head slowly. "He came to us, asked for our help. If I'd have been stronger… faster…if I'd gotten him out of that building…I mean, Max isn't here. He got out of the Mission. Could be I…I could've saved Leo, too."

"Don't do this, Sammy," Dean implored him. "If you'd have done any of those things, you wouldn't be here with me."

Sam looked at him.

"And I'm sorry Leo's dead. I am." Dean looked at the back of the wagon. "Dad said he was a good man. But," he shifted his eyes to his brother's somber face. "I'm _not_ sorry to have you watching my back."

After a moment, Sam nodded. "Go back inside, Dean," he said again, softer. "Get something to eat. There's still plenty left to do, y'know."

"Horses are hitched," Bird declared and Dean watched as she climbed into the seat. "You comin'?"

Dean looked at his brother, giving in to the necessary. Sam was right: there was plenty left to do. Getting Jake and getting home being the first two on the list. Dean didn't have enough left inside him to be everywhere.

"You be careful," he ordered.

"I'll be back before you know it."

Dean nodded, feeling cold as he watched Sam climb into the wagon seat next to Bird—shrinking her with his bulk—and head off into the shadows of the night.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Dean jerked violently, spinning to face the new voice. "Jesus!"

"Sorry," Zeke stepped into the moonlight. "I thought you'd heard me."

"You thought wrong," Dean worked to catch his breath, a hand instinctively going to his throbbing side. His head pounded, causing his vision to blur slightly with the incessant _thrum_. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," Zeke said. "I got worried when you two didn't come back."

"I figured you were too busy making eyes at Stella to notice we'd left," Dean commented dryly as he slowly made his way back to the back door of the saloon.

Zeke's mouth tipped up in a half grin. "Stella and I…have an understanding."

"I'll bet you do," Dean said, pausing next to the other man. "What was your question?"

Zeke looked at him for a moment, and Dean saw something he couldn't identify shift through his eyes. "I guess it doesn't matter. Not really." His focus pulled in, his gaze on something Dean knew was buried in the man's memory. "Y'know…I've seen a lot of brothers. Never had one of my own; mother apparently thought once was enough. But I've seen brotherhood forged in battle and brothers torn apart by the same thing."

"What are you saying?"

Zeke looked out toward where Sam and Bird had disappeared into the night. "You two…there's something different."

Dean arched a brow. "Different…how?"

This time Zeke's smile was sad. "I'll let you know when I figure it out," he said cryptically. "Think you could eat something? It'll keep your strength up…help fight off the infection."

Dean looked at him a moment, realizing Zeke knew. He knew Dean wasn't going to get better. Not without Ramirez's help. "Sure, Doc. I could eat."

The saloon was alive with a sea of voices, out-of-tune piano music, and tired laughter. Scattered like confetti throughout the cluster of men in dark clothing were several women—girls, really—with boldly colored corsets and skirts that didn't quite reach the floor, brazenly exposing narrow, heeled, lace-up boots. Lips quirking in appreciation for the surplus of skin the women offered, Dean sat at a vacant table; he smiled up at Stella when she set a plate of stew and biscuits in front of him.

"It's the only thing I know how to cook," she shrugged.

"Looks delicious," he said honestly.

"Is Sam coming back?" Stella asked.

Dean grinned. _Puppy-dog eyes gets 'em every time._ "He'll be back soon," he said. "Just taking care of…a friend."

Stella nodded and he watched her walk over to the table where the man Sam had identified as Larabee sat. She rested her hand on the man's shoulder and he watched as Larabee tipped his face up toward the light from one of the burning lanterns hung from hooks on the support beams. The man smiled at Stella as she continued on, letting her fingers trail across his shoulder, then dropped his eyes to meet Dean's once more.

Dean nodded at him, then focused on his food. It had no taste; the biscuits turned to dust on his tongue, the stew sat heavy in his gut. Thankfully, the coffee was hot and strong, cutting through the muck in his mouth and chasing away a to-the-bone chill that seemed to wrap around him.

_Need to find Jake, kick his ass, and get home…. That or find Ramirez…._

Neither option seemed likely at the moment. So engrossed was he in his own misery, Dean missed the first few beats of an argument brewing at the bar. Frowning, he stood as he recognized the man with the flying saucer of a hat who'd been searching for Ray and Fox earlier staggering back away from a smaller man with dark eyes and a pock-scarred face.

The man in the large hat was obviously drunk, barely able to stand on his own; this didn't seem to deter the other man as he advanced, a gun in each hand, hammers cocked. Zeke, Dean saw, had foolishly stepped between the two and was now caught smack in the middle.

"I really don't have a problem killing you, Zeke," the man with the weapons growled, and Dean felt the room quiet, chairs scraping back as people began to scatter away from any stray gunfire.

Dean instinctively put his hand on the butt of his own gun, blinking as he caught Zeke's eyes searching for his.

"I get that, _Ivers_," Zeke said, emphasizing the name.

Feeling his heart drop, Dean released his grip on his gun and moved around the table slowly, weighing his options. The man who had saved his life—saved _Sam's_ life—was now being threatened. Dean knew what he would do were he back in his own time, with his own weapons and his own means of escape. He wasn't sure the same approach would work in a world where arguments were more often than not solved via justice-by-gun.

His eyes were full of the confrontation in front of him; he had no thought to the other patrons in the saloon.

"Just don't see any point to killing this guy," Zeke continued. "He's about gone on whiskey."

"He was supposed to bring two men to me today," Ivers snapped. "Two men to replace the one _you_ got killed."

Zeke raised his hands. "Now, now, that's not _exactly_ true. I mean…to be fair…_you_ killed Cutter."

Ivers smoothly shifted the barrels of his weapons from the man in the hat to focus on Zeke's forehead. Dean heard Stella's gasp from across the room and the sound pushed him forward as if she'd rested her hand on his back.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice unnaturally bright. Zeke turned incredulous eyes on him, his lips tight and his teeth clenched as he mouthed _get back_. Ignoring him, Dean moved on instinct: _distract, evade, conquer. _"You Ivers?"

The man with the guns turned slowly to look at him. "Yeah. Who the hell are you?"

"Name's…Young. Angus Young," Dean replied, offering the man a dead-eyed grin. "Hope I'm not…interrupting anything." He let his eyes fall with disinterest on the drunken man and his protector before continuing. "Heard you were hiring."

Ivers tilted his head, studying Dean a moment, then released the hammers on his weapons. "You heard right."

"You're down two men?"

"Seems that way," Ivers nodded. "You got two others in mind?"

"My brother and me," Dean said, quickly eyeing Ivers' guns. "We're, uh…new in town. Could use some work."

Ivers studied him once a bit longer, then holstered his weapons. "What can you do?"

Dean shrugged, then moved in closer to Ivers. "I'm good with a gun."

"Your brother, too?"

"He's better with a knife," Dean replied, reaching the bar and leaning against it, his position turning Ivers around, his back now to Zeke. "What are you looking for?"

Zeke moved, grabbing the drunken man whose life he'd just saved by the collar and dragging him back away from the bar, dropping him in an empty seat at the table Dean had occupied, shoving his face down.

Ivers was still watching Dean; he felt as if the man were somehow turning his skin transparent with his gaze, peering into his soul and seeing the lie. Dean emptied his eyes, turning his face impassible and met the other man's look of scrutiny with an opaque stare.

"I'm looking for men who obey without question," Ivers said, his voice losing all amiable warmth. "I'm looking for soldiers."

Dean felt his stomach tighten and he forced himself to blink slowly. The chill that chased the edges of the man's words shifted Dean's confidence, but he made himself play through.

"Yeah, well...we might not be soldiers, but...we've been to war," Dean replied, the rest of his words fading as Ivers stepped forward. Dean felt the air around him constrict. His heartbeat turned sluggish for a moment before speeding up and slamming his aching head with a rush of blood.

_It's just a man, Dean. A bastard of a man. He is nothing. He is nobody. Do _not_ let him shake you up._

Then Ivers' eyes slid black. All black, no irises, no whites, just ink-black.

_Oh, shit…._

It happened so quickly that Dean had to blink to refocus, but it was enough to send him off-balance, exposing him by laying bare his recognition. Ivers pressed his sudden advantage and quick as lightening, grabbed Dean by the throat, turning him, and shoved him backwards against the bar. Dean's hands instinctively flew up to grip the man's wrists, unable to do a thing to relax Ivers' grip.

"You think you can best me, _hunter_?" he growled against Dean's ear, his voice hot, the spit that flew from his lips seeming to sizzle on Dean's cheek like acid.

Dean couldn't breathe for a moment, the pain in his side playing second fiddle to the soul-numbing shock of being seen for what he really was: a man raised to recognize evil and destroy it. The heat radiating from Ivers' body seemed to melt into Dean, making him shake from the intensity.

"First the priest and now you?" Ivers said, his face so close to Dean's that he choked on the feral breath. "You guys _really_ need to find some different tactics."

"I-I don't know what you're t-talking about," Dean forced out, his lungs folding from the pressure of Ivers weight against him, bending him backwards over the bar. His side had become achingly cold. Dark spots started to gather at the corners of his eyes.

"You...," Ivers spat, his lips pulling back in a snarl and exposing yellowing teeth. "You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about. And if I wasn't so _damn close_ to opening that gate, I'd sacrifice you here and now."

The _roll-click_ of a revolver was the prettiest sound Dean had heard in a long while. His eyes shot past Ivers' angry features to see the long barrel of a gun pointed directly at the man's left ear.

"You have a barrel of a Remington revolver set to open up the side of your head," declared the voice connected to the gun. "From this distance, it's guaranteed to kill you and make a helluva mess on my clothes. Let him go and we won't have to worry about either of those things."

* * *

**a/n: **Remember the phrase 'it's always darkest before the dawn'? Yeah, well…keep that in mind as we move forward.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1.

**a/n**: If you've read my stories before, you know that I try very hard to make the pain _mean_ something and to offer comfort (for us and for the characters). Not that writing pain for the sake of pain is bad or wrong...just that there always seems to be a lot of it in my stories and I wanted to reassure you that I've thought it through. *smile* So, with that, I promise that while there's more pain to come—for both brothers—there's a plan behind it.

Because these guys are our heroes, and I'd never want to take that away from us.

* * *

"_Our very survival depends on our ability to stay awake, to adjust to new ideas, to remain vigilant and to face the challenge of change."_

_Martin Luther King, Jr._

www

_Sulfur Springs, Texas 1870_

He should have left the saloon the very moment Ivers drew on the drunken man.

He used to be sharper, savvier, his senses tuned to the most minute shift in his environment. He used to be a formidable opponent.

A hunter. A soldier. A father. A friend.

There used to be meaning behind his actions. Now all he had was the mission. And he couldn't even keep a grip on that from one minute to the next. He'd forgotten why he was sitting in a hard-backed, wooden chair across from a quiet man with eyes that seemed to see everything at once. He'd even forgotten the cigarette in his hand until it burned down to ash, scoring the skin of his fingers.

But then he saw the kid. Another man's son. He watched as the kid advanced on Ivers and he thought about calling out, thought about warning him, thought about grabbing him up as he would have done with Sean and hauling him out of there, away from this devil of a man.

Thought about it all, yet didn't move.

He simply watched it happen; listened as Ivers called Dean a _hunter_, listened as he threatened, listened as he exposed his secret: the search for the gate.

And then he remembered. He remembered the years of searching, the tiny clue that had given him hope, the discovery of an abandoned Hell's Gate, a thwarted attempted by a demon, a defeat only made possible because of one weapon.

The weapon he had to find.

Jake stood when the man across from him at the table rose and pulled a cannon of a gun from a holster at his hip. Jake melted into the shadows as the man pressed the barrel of the gun against Ivers' ear. He stopped breathing as the man threatened Ivers, obviously unclear as to who held the advantage here.

Unaware that he was dealing with a devil.

Jake watched as Ivers held Dean by the throat, bent backwards over the bar, the other man holding the gun on Ivers, and waited for the bloodbath.

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage, friend," Ivers said.

Jake nearly fell over with surprise.

"I'm not your friend. Let him go," the man in black returned, his voice steady, his arm unwavering with the weight of his gun.

To Jake's amazement, Ivers released Dean, the young hunter frantically gripping the edge of the bar to keep from falling to the floor. Ivers turned slowly, taking a step toward the gunslinger, allowing the barrel of the other man's gun to press into his scarred cheek.

"You have _no idea_ who you're dealing with," Ivers informed the gunman, his voice sucking the heat from the room.

Jake watched as the man who'd originally stepped into this ruckus hurried to Dean's side, catching the kid as his legs buckled and holding him up with one arm slung around his shoulders. The paid kept their eyes pinned to the exchange taking place in the center of the room.

"I run this town, friend. These people? Belong to _me_!"

The gunman didn't lower his weapon or change facial expression. "You can't tell but right now, deep down, I'm petrified," he replied. "And I already told you…I'm _not _your friend."

Jake watched, his body tense, as Ivers studied the man. He knew without question that if Ivers wanted to, he could kill this man with just his will. He could reach into the man's chest with his mind and rip his heart free. He could twist him up inside until he bled out.

But he did none of those things.

"I don't really care about you," Ivers informed the man.

"I'll try to live with that," the man replied.

Ivers turned and looked back at Dean and the man holding him up. "I already warned you once, Zeke. You started by protecting the priest. Now you've taken a hunter under your wing. The wrath you bring upon this town is your own doing."

"And that's what makes me special," Zeke replied, his face blank.

Dean grinned, straightening slightly away from Zeke. Jake swallowed, his fear increasing. Ivers turned, his dark gaze ignoring the gun still pointed at his head and taking in the various men in the saloon who officially worked for him.

"Let's go," he ordered, his voice a deepened rumble.

He moved past the revolver, past Jake, and out through the saloon doors. The man in black thumbed the hammer of his gun forward and lowered the weapon as at least ten men followed Ivers out of the saloon. Jake held still, watching Dean.

_Ivers knew the kid was a hunter. He _saw_ it. _He hadn't encountered many demons in his career, but those he'd had never once pegged him as a hunter. He wasn't sure where to put that realization.

"You okay?" Zeke turned to Dean, releasing him slowly.

Dean nodded, a hand on the bar, steadying himself, his eyes on the man in black. "You're Larabee, right?"

The man holstered his weapon, then extended a hand. "Chris Larabee."

Dean grasped the hand. "Appreciate the help, man."

Larabee looked at Zeke. "Who was that guy?" he asked, tipping his head in the direction of the saloon doors.

A woman in a red skirt and black corset moved behind the bar and began setting out shot glasses; Jake watched as she nodded to a small man with a gray beard that hung to the middle of his chest. In moments, off-key piano music trickled through the thinned-out crowd and people returned to their business.

Jake was forced to move from his hiding place to another table in order to hear the words from the men at the bar.

"…find my brother," Dean was saying.

"He's okay," Zeke assured him. "I sent him in the opposite direction of Ivers' place to bury your friend."

"If he's a bounty hunter, too, he'll know how to stay low," Larabee commented, reaching for the shot glass the woman set in front of him.

Jake saw the look that crossed Dean's face. His own lips twitched in what he almost recognized as a conspirators smile, though the other men had no idea he stood nearby. The gunfighter had heard _hunter_ and assumed Dean was after a bounty. The veil of secrets that cloaked their lives stretched back through time, it seemed.

"Who is this priest Ivers was talking about?" Larabee asked, swallowing the whiskey and tugging his lips back in a suppressed hiss.

"Ramirez," Zeke sighed, rubbing his face.

"Pablo Ramirez?"

Dean turned to look at the gunfighter, surprise on his face. "You know him?"

Larabee nodded. "Yeah, I know him. Just passed him on my way here."

"Where was he? Do you know where he was going?" Zeke's voice was tight.

Larabee frowned. "Far as I know, he was heading to his Mission. Said something about…I don't know…holding back the darkness." The man shrugged. "Pablo talks in riddles. I didn't think much of it."

"He's coming back," Dean said to Zeke, and there was a curious mixture of worry and relief on his face.

Zeke nodded. "And we have to warn him."

A door behind the bar banged and Jake heard the _slap-thunk_ of swiftly approaching foot-falls.

"Dean!"

The sound of that young voice sent Jake's memory spinning. Back to the diner and the taste of blood in his coffee. Back to the moment the brothers had walked through the door. Back to the realization that one of his best friends—a man he'd considered a brother—had betrayed him. Had called in reinforcements. Had summoned another man's sons for help.

_Sean is dead…Sean is dead because of me and John Winchester's sons are alive…they're alive and they're here…they're here with me and Sean is dead…._

The sickening realization that the person running through the back of the saloon to join the group at the bar was Dean's brother slammed through Jake in the space of a heartbeat. The spell hadn't only joined Dean to him on this journey—_Sam_ was here as well.

And if Sam was here….

He staggered, head swimming, and bounced against one of the tables. The unexpected sound brought several pairs of eyes his way, the most disconcerting belonging to Sam and Dean Winchester.

"Jake?" Dean breathed, moving stiffly away from the bar.

Jake backed up. "Just stay there."

"Jake—wait!" Sam called, hurrying past his brother, closing the gap between them.

Confusion surged to the surface of Jake's heart. Here they were. Both of them. John Winchester's sons had come back in time with him. So where were Leo and Max? Why was he alone? What had he done to them, to his friends, to his _brothers_?

_What have I done…?_

"Just…just STAY BACK!" Jake shouted, panic rising tight and hard in his chest. What if Leo and Max were out there…searching for him…seeking to put an end to this….

_No, no, no…they can't stop me…they can't touch me…they can't get me now…not _now_…not until I have it!_

"Jake, please!" Sam implored, pulling up short as Jake's back banged against the swinging doors. "We need your help."

"I can't help you," Jake shook his head rapidly. "I can't help you now."

"You're our only shot, man!" Dean came up beside Sam, his eyes oddly bright, his pale face grim. "We _need you_."

Jake backed through the doors. "Not until I have it," he said, then turned, running into the dark of the rutted street to find the horse he'd ridden to town. "I can't go until I have it!"

He had to get back to Ivers' place. He had to find it.

Because it wouldn't take those two long to find _him_ again.

www

Sam was amazed at how quickly the dark swallowed the escaping figure of the man. He stood in the doorway, ready to give chase, but the unfamiliar sounds of the night masked any noise of horse's hooves and he could no longer see Jake.

"Wait, Sam." Dean's hand was on his arm, drawing him back into the saloon, the doors swinging slowly shut behind him.

Sam looked over at his brother, frowning at the way Dean seemed to tilt to his left as if unconsciously protecting his wounded side. Dean looked back at him, shaking his head wearily.

"Just wait," Dean said softly. "We're not ready."

Sam could feel the heat of his brother's skin through the contact on his arm. He nodded, turning with Dean to face the men waiting behind them.

"It?" Zeke called through the din of music and voices. "What the hell _is_ it?"

"We don't know," Sam replied, heading back to the bar where Stella, Zeke, and the man named Larabee waited. "It's what brought him—" he stopped looking at the two who weren't in on the back story, "—uh, to this town."

"You need _his_ help?" Larabee asked.

Sam frowned at the gunslinger, confused.

"Uh, Sam, this is Chris," Dean said. "He…basically just saved my life." Dean reached up and rubbed at his neck, his fingers tripping over the small, healing cut near his collarbone.

Sam didn't need to know the details; he could tell Dean was weakening. And there was something swimming in his brother's eyes that tripped his pulse, digging fingers of fear into his heart.

He held out a hand, shaking the gunfighter's in gratitude. "Thanks, man."

Larabee nodded. "Never did like to see the bad guys win." He glanced down. "I've seen too much of that in my life."

The group was quiet for a moment. Then Larabee bounced a finger on the bar. "I've gotta be going. On my way to meet a friend."

"Thanks again," Dean said, offering the man a genuine smile.

"If you need Pablo," Larabee said, adjusting his hat, "pretty sure you'll find him at the Mission by morning." He tipped a finger to his brim, then turned and exited the saloon.

"Pablo?" Sam asked, looking from Dean to Zeke.

"Ramirez," Dean informed him.

"He's coming back?" Sam felt a bubble of hope rise inside of him.

"Yeah, and one of Ivers' men heard that," Zeke replied, implications heavy in his tone. "We gotta do something."

"We gotta do some reconnaissance is what we gotta do," Dean growled. "Then get Jake and—" he glanced quickly at Stella, who was hanging on every word. "Get him to…show us the way home."

"You boys don't know how to get home?" Stella asked, her frown drawing character lines around her eyes.

"In a manner of speaking," Sam replied softly.

"You took care of Leo?" Dean asked his brother.

Sam nodded, the glowing orange and blue of the dying light of the pyre licking the edges of his memory. "Bird is unhitching the wagon now."

Dean looked at Zeke. "Tell us how to get to Ivers' ranch."

"You?" Zeke frowned, his eyes instinctively going to Dean's wounded side.

"Yes," Dean replied, his voice hard.

"Dean," Zeke shook his head. "You need to…rest up. I'll go with Sam and—"

"No!" There was a brittle edge of desperation on the tail-end of Dean's voice. Sam felt his body pull in tight as Dean turned to him. "I am _not_ gonna let you head off to this monster's house alone—even if the doc comes with you. This is my fight, too, and we may not get another chance to get Jake to get us back home." Sam watched as Dean's right arm wrapped around his middle, his hand protecting his wounded side. "I'm not an idiot; I know I don't have much of a chance unless we find Jake or get to Ramirez." He paused to take a shaky breath. "But you're _not_ going without me."

Sam simply nodded, having given up the idea of arguing with him before he'd even started talking. There was something wrong with Dean, other than the obvious. His eyes were too bright, his skin too hot. Sam knew that Zeke's ministrations had only staved off the inevitable. But there was something…shimmering around his brother. A need, a _drive_ that was scaring him.

"Okay then," he replied. "I guess we need…a gun and some horses."

"I got a gun," Dean said softly, leaning against the bar.

"_I _don't," Sam pointed out.

"Thought you were better with a knife," Zeke said.

Sam frowned. "Who told you that?"

"Don't worry about it," Dean interrupted. "I was just…making conversation with Ivers."

"Making conversation with…," Sam shook his head. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"So I've been told," Dean said. He looked at Zeke. "You point us in the right direction. All we need to do is get a lay of the land—get an idea of where Jake could be, what we might be up against. We'll come back and get you."

Zeke _thunked_ his fingers against the edge of the bar. "Hell, no. You're not leaving me out of this. I gotta see how it all plays out. Plus," he tucked his chin, trying unsuccessfully to catch Dean's eyes, "at the rate you're going, you might need a former doctor along for the ride."

Dean looked at Sam and something heavy rolled across his expression. Something that said _it's too risky, it's too much_.

Sam licked his lips then looked at Zeke. "Maybe we should do recon on our own, Zeke. Dean's right; we'll come back and get you."

Zeke's normally placid eyes shifted rapidly, turning hard. He gripped Sam's bicep and shoved him off to the side of the saloon, tucked into the shadows, away from Stella's eyes and anyone else who might be listening. Sam stumbled along, blinking in surprise, and caught himself with the flat of his hand on the far wall before Zeke could shove him against it.

Dean was right behind them, his face colorless with fury.

"Dude!" Dean bit out, his tone so clipped it cut the air. "What the hell?"

"You listen, kid," Zeke all-but growled at Sam, his voice low, his eyes dark. "I have gone along with every one of your claims. I've trusted you even when what you said was eight shades of crazy. I promised you I wasn't gonna let your brother die."

Sam jerked his arm free, weariness condensing and curdling inside of him until it quickly fermented into anger. "What do you want, a medal?" He snapped.

Dean pulled up short, his eyes darting to Sam's with a look of surprise and appreciation.

"You think I'm _excited_ about riding into a goddamn hornets' nest with my brother just this side of conscious?" Sam continued, the headache that had crept up on him earlier making itself home behind his eyes.

"Hey!" Dean protested softly.

"We're trying to keep you from getting killed, man," Sam snarled, pushing away from the wall and facing down the saloon owner, finding the man's equal height slightly imposing. "None of this was supposed to happen. We can't risk—"

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Zeke interrupted, drawing Stella's curious eyes. Sam frowned and Zeke dropped his tone. "I don't remember asking you two to protect me. I'm a grown man; I can decide for myself whose play to back, what battle to fight."

"You don't get it," Dean spoke up, moving to stand next to Sam, his slightly-bowed stance pulling their attention. "That's not just your average bad guy, looking to take over the town."

"I'm starting to work that part out," Zeke replied.

"He's…_It's_…the kind of thing me and my brother deal with every day," Dean continued.

"Well," Sam half-turned to Dean. "We haven't exactly dealt with a demon like this before, Dean."

Dean arched an eyebrow at him. "You're gonna get particular on me _now_?"

Sam raised a hand. "I see your point."

"I don't care what he—or it—is," Zeke declared. "You two got me into this mess with your whole…falling from the sky…traveling through time…wounds that won't heal business. I don't know what people are like where you come from," he pulled himself straight, his mouth set in a grim line, "but 'round here? We don't just leave friends to twist in the wind."

Sam blinked. He glanced over at Dean and saw his brother lift his chin a bit. _Friends…._

"So, if we're done with this little side-bar, I say we get Sam a gun, head to Ivers' ranch, see what we see."

"Not much of a plan," Sam grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. His headache had receded somewhat, but hadn't escaped completely. "Get guns. Ride in. Hope for the best."

"I don't think we have much choice, Sam," Dean said, his voice slightly hollow.

Sam stared at him, willing Dean to look up, needing to see that his fear was unfounded. That he was wrong. That Dean was okay. Dean's eyes stayed stubbornly downcast and Sam watched a muscle work along his brother's jaw as if it were a live thing.

With one final glance at them, Zeke nodded as if punctuating the end of his decision, then turned and headed back to the bar. The brothers followed in quiet unison.

"We've got some work to do," Zeke said to Stella. "You think you can handle things here?"

Stella's lips curled upwards. "I've got Big Bob to help, and Frost tickling the Ivories," she said. "I'm good as long as Ivers doesn't come back."

"Too bad Larabee couldn't stay," Sam sighed. "Help you out a little, Stella."

Stella glanced down at the glass in her hand she was wiping down, an eyebrow arching. "Oh, I have a feeling Mr. Larabee might've been more of a…distraction…than a help."

"Hey, now," Zeke protested mildly.

"Off with you," Stella nodded toward the door. "Don't play nice with the outlaws."

Zeke kissed the air in her direction as he backed away from the bar, leading the brothers out of the saloon. They headed to the Livery, Sam peering into the darkness of the barn from the brightness of the moonlit night. He was startled to find himself coming face-to-face with Zeke's horse, Hooker.

"What the—" Zeke started, his voice laden with surprise.

"You have to promise me something," Bird said, appearing next to the big horse's shoulder.

"Bird?" Dean stepped forward and rested his hand on her shoulder.

"Sam said you had to find that guy," Bird said, her large gray eyes shifting from Dean to Sam and back. "Frost said he's at Ivers' place. So, I know you're going to ride out there."

Dean looked at Sam, then Zeke. Sam felt the heaviness in that glance roll from his brother and settle in around his own heart. This was getting too big, too complicated. It was starting to be about more than just getting home. It was starting to be about people.

It was a weight Sam wasn't sure they were equipped to carry.

"I got the horses all ready for you, but you have to promise me something."

"What?" Dean crouched down so that his face was level with hers. Sam saw a shimmer of pain radiate up through his jaw line.

"You gotta get my family out of there."

"Aw, kid," Dean sighed, shaking his head sadly. "If we can, we will."

"No." Bird stepped back, out of Dean's grasp. "You gotta _promise_. I know you ain't an angel…but if you promise, I'll believe you."

"Bird," Zeke stepped in, taking Hooker's reins from her. "You know we don't want anything bad to happen to your mom and brother."

"It don't matter what you _want_," Bird snapped. "It matters what you're gonna do. And if you say you're gonna save them, I know you'll do it."

She looked directly at Dean, her gray eyes wide. "I saved you," she said softly. "You fell from the sky and I saved you. Please," she swallowed hard, "promise me."

Sam looked at his brother, waiting. He already knew Dean's answer.

"I promise, Bird," Dean said. "We won't…we won't go home until we get your family out."

Bird took a breath. "Okay," she nodded. "Sentenza's here. He's got the other two horses."

Backing up, she made way for the small, mute Mexican to lead two other horses into the paddock area.

"Where'd the other horse come from?" Sam asked, eyeing the gray mare as she danced a bit in the opening, the silvery light from the moon giving her a ghostly, ethereal look.

Bird shrugged. "We, uh…borrowed it," she said, sharing a quick glance with Sentenza. "Frost is in there playing the piano." She gestured toward the saloon with a tip of her chin. "We would've asked, but…I didn't think Zeke would like it if I came into the saloon."

Zeke arched a brow. "Convenient."

"Hey, Sam," Dean chuckled softly. "You want to ride Little Joe's horse?"

Sam looked over at the black and white Paint.

"Who's Little Joe?" Zeke asked.

"This horse don't belong to no one," Bird frowned.

"Forget it," Sam shook his head. "And I'll take anything over that mare."

"She looks like a ghost horse," Dean observed, running a hand along the mare's neck. "Kinda fitting, huh?"

"Yeah, she's freakin' awesome," Sam grumbled, backing up a step as the mare blew at him through her nostrils, shying to one side of Sentenza.

Needing the reminder, Sam watched as Zeke shoved his left foot in the stirrup of Hooker's saddle, gripped the mane and reins in one hand, and then swung his leg across the horse's back. Zeke looked down at Bird in appreciation. Sam saw Sentenza sign something to the girl.

"He said he borrowed a rifle from Frost," Bird informed them, pointing to the little paint. "Put it on that one."

"There's a Winchester rifle in the scabbard on your saddle, Sam," he said. "You know how to use one of those?"

Sam couldn't help it. He chuckled, meeting his brother's amused expression. "I can handle a Winchester," he replied.

"Great," Zeke said, turning Hooker in a tight circle. The war-vet of a horse seemed to sense they were going into battle. He tossed his head, jingling the bit in his mouth, and danced in place. "This one's rarin' to go."

Sam took a breath, then swung up onto the back of the Paint. "Easy, Joe," he said softly, patting the smaller horse's neck. He looked over and saw Dean sitting on the mare, his eyes closed, his hand pressed against his side. The mare stood perfectly still. "You gonna make it?"

Dean opened his eyes and Sam saw resolve shining from his eyes, his skin milk-pale in the moonlight. "You bet your ass, I'll make it."

Looking at Zeke, Sam felt compelled to give the man one last chance to get out before it got too messy. "You really sure you're up for this?"

Zeke frowned. "You're friends, Sam. I'm not letting you go into this fight alone."

"But…you don't really even know us," Sam pointed out.

"You're _friends_," Zeke repeated, with a tired roll of his eyes. "Why are we still talking about this?"

Sam took a breath, deciding to let it go. Zeke was right: he was a grown man, capable of making his own choices. He thought of Leo. He hadn't known the man more than a day, but allowing him to be buried in some Potter's Field in Nowhere, Texas, just hadn't felt right. For a brief moment, sitting in the back of their car, Leo had needed a friend.

He nodded at the former doctor, then gathered the reins in one hand, gripping the saddle horn with the other. He wasn't ready for this. Once again they were going after Jake, walking—well, _riding_—into the unknown with the barest hint of a plan. And once again, they didn't have much of a choice. He followed the other man's motions, digging his heels into the flanks of the black and white horse. It was easy to keep Dean between them: the mare was simply faster than his Paint.

As they passed the Mission, Zeke pulled up to a brisk walk, dropping back next to the brothers.

"Anything happens and we get split up? Meet back here at the Mission."

Dean nodded tersely. He was bent slightly forward, but Sam didn't have time to worry. He watched as Zeke kicked Hooker back into a run, wanting for one brief moment to whimper aloud. He was winded and sweaty. His legs were tired and the skin on the inside of his knees was starting to chafe against the hard leather of the saddle. He ass was protesting the pounding.

But then he looked over at Dean, took in the pain he saw in just that glance, and watched as his brother kicked the mare into a run behind Hooker, and he knew that if Dean wasn't giving up, then he was going to make it. He had to.

Keeping his eyes on Dean, Sam saw how his brother seemed to naturally absorb the motion of the horse with his legs, rocking forward in time with the movement of the horse's gait, then tucking his hips in to scoop deep into the saddle. It was an oddly familiar rhythm; Dean's body seemed to roll in time with the horse's stride. It took Sam a moment to place where he'd seen that cadence before; when it hit him, he blushed. It was the same motion one often used in sex. Once he figured that out, he found that riding the horse became much easier.

Just as he felt he was too winded to keep the pretense up, Sam saw Zeke pull up short near an outcrop of pale stone at the crest of a hill. Dean followed and soon they were all three tucked behind the rock. The moon offered them a pseudo-spotlight as they looked down the hill to the buildings below.

"That's the start of Ivers' spread there," Zeke pointed down toward a large corral full of horses. "Just there, that's the bunkhouse. And up the slope a ways is the main house."

"What's the plan?" Sam panted.

Dean licked his lips. His color was starting to look worse, if that was possible, and he was holding his side, hunched over. "You think Jake's at the bunkhouse?"

Zeke shrugged. "Unless he went up to the main house to tell Ivers about Ramirez."

Sam looked at his brother, nodded. They had to split up.

"Sam and me'll take the bunkhouse," Dean declared. "Zeke, you head up to the house. The plan is to find Jake. We'll worry about the rest later."

"What about Bird's family?" Zeke asked.

"If you can get them out without trouble," Dean nodded, "but we may just have to come back."

"You thinking we need more people?" Sam asked.

"I'm thinking we need a friggin' army," Dean returned. "You see how many horses he's got down there? If he even has half that amount in men, we're in trouble."

"I don't think Jake's gonna come willingly," Zeke pointed out. "He couldn't get out of the saloon fast enough."

Dean pulled his Colt revolver free. "He'll come if we make him."

Zeke frowned, getting a good look at the weapon in Dean's hand for the first time. "Where'd you get that?"

"Bird," Dean replied, rolling the cylinder along his forearm and peering at the loaded chambers. "Said it belonged to her dad."

"It did," Zeke nodded. "I got it for him. Tom O'Maera was a good man," he looked down at Ivers' spread. "He didn't deserve to die like that."

Dean frowned. "What did you say his name was?"

"I thought the same thing," Sam replied softly.

"What? Thought what? Why do I always feel like I walked into the middle of a conversation with you two?"

Dean huffed out a small laugh. "We've just…spent a lot of time together," he said. "Sulfur Springs isn't called Sulfur Springs in our time."

Zeke looked back at Sam as if for confirmation. "What's it called?"

Sam sighed, once more giving in to the inevitable. "Maera."

"As in… _O_'Maera," Zeke replied.

"Seems like it," Sam nodded.

"Named after Tom you think?" Zeke frowned.

"I don't know," Dean shook his head. "And before you get all space-time continuum on me, Sam, Bird's dad died like three weeks before we even got here, so if it was supposed to be named after him, we had nothing to do with it."

"I wasn't gonna say anything," Sam protested, raising his hands, then quickly re-gripping the saddle horn as Joe shifted beneath him.

"Uh-huh," Dean muttered.

Zeke took a breath. "Okay, boys," he said. "Quick and quiet. The moon is not our friend tonight."

Sam nodded, seeing Dean do the same out of the corner of his eyes. If they could see the ranch with relative ease this deep in the night, then sharp eyes would be able to spot their approach via the same illumination.

"We'll meet back here in an hour, or at the Mission at dawn," Zeke told him, not bothering to mention a third alternative.

Dean looked at the saloon owner. "Good luck."

"You, too."

And with that, they parted, the brothers riding down the hill in one direction, Zeke in another. Sam couldn't help but feel like they were riding away from the frying pan and into the fire.

As they approached the backside of the bunkhouse, Dean pulled the mare up, slowing her and edging toward a small cluster of trees on the bank of a dry riverbed that dug a deep groove into the earth along the back of the building. Sam watched as his brother slid from the saddle, hanging on to the tough leather for a moment as he caught his breath.

"You okay?" Sam whispered.

"Peachy," Dean gasped out. "Head's killing me."

"Just your head?"

"You want me to paint a picture for you, Sam?"

"Sorry." Sam dismounted, surprised that he, too, had to hold onto the saddle for a moment. His feet had fallen asleep and he stomped in place to get rid of the feeling of pins and needles. "I don't know why people actually _pay_ to do this back home."

"They're masochists," Dean muttered.

"You looked like you were enjoying it," Sam whispered, ducking under the neck of his horse to come around to Dean's side.

The black hat Dean had been wearing was off, hanging down his back from stampede strings. His brother had his face buried in the mare's sweaty neck and his fingers fisted in her tangled mane.

"I was enjoying the fact that I was moving at all," Dean confessed, turning his head to face Sam. "Something's…something's wrong, Sam."

"All of this is wrong," Sam muttered stepping forward.

Dean shook his head, his short hair tangling slightly with the mare's black dreadlocks. "No…it's me. I can feel it," he said softly, reluctantly. "Inside. There's like a…a hole. And I'm falling in."

Sam took a step closer. Licking his suddenly dry lips, Sam reached out, gripping Dean's arm, dismayed at the tremble he felt there. Promises of care that always came so easily to Dean slipped across Sam's tongue too fast for him to grasp. He wanted to tell Dean he wouldn't let him fall. He wanted to tell him they were going to make it.

He wanted to believe it.

"We gotta get this guy," Dean said in a desperate, shaky whisper. "And get the hell outta here."

Dean's eyes seemed to be emptying as he stared at him and Sam felt his heart clench, tight in his chest. He had to force himself to take a breath.

"You're gonna be okay," Sam said, needing to say the words as much as he needed Dean to hear them. "We're gonna get out of this."

Dean's eyes latched onto his and Sam felt his brother drawing power from that connection, working to be strong enough, tough enough. After a moment, he nodded. "Well, I sure as hell am _not_ gonna let some Judd Nelson wannabe beat us."

"You hate Judd Nelson," Sam commented.

"Exactly," Dean pointed at him, pulling away from the horse and standing on his own.

"What do we do with them?"

Dean frowned. "Leave them here…drop the reins on the ground. That's what they always do in the movies."

"Won't they run off?" Sam asked.

"Well, if they do, there's more over there," Dean said. "Let's go. Grab your Winchester."

"Grab my wha—oh," Sam said, frowning at the mischievous smirk on his brother's pale face.

He pulled the rifle from the scabbard and followed Dean along the river bed that ran between the trees and up to the rear of the bunkhouse. Once there, they put their backs to the rough-hewn wall. Dean ticked off a three-count with his free hand, then ducked his head around the side wall of the bunkhouse. Sam felt his stomach drop as his brother suddenly froze, straightened, then stepped out into the open.

"What the hell are you doing here, boy?" growled a liquor-heavy voice.

Sam could only see his brother in shadowed profile, but noted the squaring of his shoulders as he was challenged by the unexpected stranger. He brought his rifle up just as he saw Dean's hand held out to him, palm up, telling him to _wait…._

"I'm, uh…looking for a friend of mine," Dean said, holding his gun up, away from the person confronting him.

"Think you're looking in the wrong place," the man said, and Sam heard the _roll-click_ of a revolver.

"Mister, you know what a Winchester rifle can do in the hands of someone who knows how to use it?" Dean asked, calmly.

"I don't see no Winchester," the man snarled.

Dean dropped his hand and Sam slid around the corner, positioned behind and to the right of his brother, the rifle up on his shoulder pointing directly at the heavy-set man.

"You do now," Dean said.

The man lowered his weapon, beady eyes bouncing between the brothers. "You want to look for your friend? You got five minutes."

With that, he stumbled off to the side, his loud belch announcing their presence.

"Nice move, Sam," Dean said with an appreciative nod. Sam smiled, lowering the rifle.

Dean took a step forward, then suddenly swayed.

"Shit," Sam cursed, grabbing Dean's arm, feeling his brother shift his weight first toward Sam, then away in an attempt to regain control.

"'M okay," Dean shrugged him off. "Leggo."

Sam pressed his lips together as Dean's words slurred, but propelled them both into the bunkhouse, coming face-to-face with several weapons raised in instinctive, automatic reaction to their sudden entrance.

"Jake!" Sam called, looking around at the strange faces around him. "Jake Brand!"

"He ain't in here," said a young-sounding voice.

The brothers turned and saw a dark-haired boy of about thirteen sitting on a top bunk, holding an ancient-looking Colt. The boy released the hammer on the weapon, lowering it, but kept his eyes on them.

"He's up at the house."

Sam heard several clicks as the hammers from other weapons were released. He glanced around quickly, unable to see many faces, only the blurred motion of bodies shifting as they lay back down in their bunks, soft grumbles at being awoke providing a muffled backdrop to the their exchange with the boy.

"You Bird O'Maera's brother?" Dean asked.

Sam shot a surprised look at his brother, then narrowed his focus on the kid.

The kid frowned. "Rory," he nodded. "How'd you know?"

"You got her eyes, kid," Dean said, his voice barely audible.

"She's okay?" Rory asked, relief palpable in his tone.

"She's fine," Sam assured him. "She just wants you back. Come with us."

Rory shook his head. "Ivers has my Mama up at the house. I ain't leavin' until she does."

"We'll get your mom, too," Sam said. "Just—"

The explosion of gunfire from behind them had the brothers ducking instinctively, Dean stumbling against the door. Sam looked frantically over his shoulder as the heavy-set man who'd stopped them before stood on the wide, wrap-around porch of the main house, pistol firing in the air. He bellowed something indiscernible to Sam, but that the men in the bunkhouse seemed to recognize.

"What is it?" Sam yelled to Rory.

"Get the hell outta here," Rory yelled. "Go back and take care of Bird!"

Sam grabbed Dean's arm and propelled them from the door of the bunkhouse to the only place he could think of that would be safe from the myriad of guns that suddenly surrounded them: the corral of horses.

"Climb the fence, Dean!" Sam ordered, pushing his sluggish brother up the log fence.

Dean dropped to the ground on the other side, dangerously near the nervous hooves of several horses. Sam clambered down next to him, tucking the rifle under one arm and pulling Dean to his feet. His brother was visibly shaking and Sam saw his right hand was sticky with blood. With a sickening twist of his gut, he realized Dean's wound had reopened and the fever he'd been fighting all night was getting more than just a toe-hold on Dean's consciousness.

"C'mon," Sam pulled him into the suffocating throng of milling horses.

"What about Rory?" Dean said, doing his best to shove the nervous animals away from them, leaving smeared, bloody hand prints on their sides and shoulders that looked black in the moonlight.

"He'll be fine," Sam replied tersely. "Has been so far."

"We gotta help 'im," Dean slurred.

"We will, Dean," Sam assured him. "We gotta get outta _here_, first."

Another shout brought Sam's head up and around. People were pouring out of Ivers' house. He didn't see Jake or Zeke in the mix, but he did see a lot of weapons. Pushing forward through the horses, gripping Dean's arm, Sam thought furiously about what to do next.

"Sam," Dean said, his voice breathless.

Sam looked over at his brother, alarmed by Dean's hooded eyes. Ignoring Dean's weak protests, he bent low, slinging Dean's arm over his shoulder. He felt his brother's weight shift against him.

_Jesus, he's burning up._

"Sam," Dean tried again.

"Shut up, man," Sam snarled. "I'm getting us out of here."

"The horses," Dean said.

Sam looked at him, confused. "What about them?"

"Stampede."

Sam looked around and saw that the opening to the corral faced the house. "Good thinking."

"Just…get us out of the way…first," Dean suggested, working to keep his legs under him.

"Right," Sam nodded, moving to the gate and releasing the latch. Dodging the heavy bodies of the increasingly agitated horses, he tucked both of them up against a thick support post, then looked down at Dean. "Ready?"

Dean pulled his weapon and nodded. Raising the barrels of their weapons skyward, they each fired off a round. That was all it took for several of the horses to utter high-pitched, terrified whinnies and charge the gate, pushing it open with their bodies and spilling in a flood of equestrian mass out around the main house, across the wide porch, churning Earth and men and weapons beneath their powerful, pounding hooves.

Sam held onto the now-swaying corral, keeping Dean against him, and waited until the last horse had charged from the corral before slinging Dean's arm across his shoulders once more. He felt Dean holster his weapon, then move with him out of the paddock area and across the now-ruined land to the bunkhouse wall.

"Zeke?" Dean gasped.

"Didn't see him," Sam panted, searching the darkness for their horses.

"Jake?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "Maybe Zeke got him."

"Maybe," Dean nodded. "Where's our horses?"

"I think they joined that mosh pit we let loose," Sam said as they reached the cluster of trees where they'd ground-tied their mounts.

"Sam…," Dean groaned softly, his legs finally buckling beneath him.

"Aw, no," Sam shook his head. "You son of a bitch, you _don't_ do this." He knelt next to his brother, propping him carefully against one of the trees. "You said this is your fight, too."

"I know," Dean said, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "I know…I did."

His hands on Dean's chest, Sam imagined he could feel his brother sinking, hollowing out, disappearing inside that hole he'd spoken of, fire from his fever replacing the fight that had always been the core of Dean.

"You can't stop fighting 'til the fight's done, then," Sam insisted. "Isn't that what Dad says?"

"He…stole that…line," Dean whispered, "from _The Untouchables_."

"Oh," Sam stood, rubbing a hand over his face. "Well, doesn't mean it's not true."

The distant thunder of the charging horses was fading and was replaced by incoherent shouts of men working to make sense of what had just happened. Sam peered through the darkness toward the bunkhouse.

_It's not gonna take those guys long to figure out what direction we went._ He looked down at Dean, slumped against the tree, eyes closed, body visibly shaking from whatever the fever was doing inside of him. _I gotta get him outta here…._

He heard a branch snap behind him and turned, bringing his rifle up swiftly. As if emerging from the shadows of a dream, the gray mare stepped forward, reins trailing behind her, head lowered.

"Son of a bitch," he heard Dean whisper and lowered his rifle to turn and see Dean lowering his Colt. He hadn't even heard his brother draw the weapon. "What do you know about that?"

"She stayed," Sam whispered in awe.

"Or came back," Dean said. "Either way, she needs a better name than Bitch."

"You got any ideas?" Sam said, approaching the horse slowly, empty hand out, unsure if she'd shy away from him. The mare stayed still, allowing Sam to grab her reins and slide the rifle into the empty scabbard on the back of the saddle.

"I'll…think…of something," Dean promised, trying to get to his feet.

Sam heard a shout that sounded way too near and led the mare toward his brother. "Here," he said, bending low. "Grab on to me."

He felt Dean's hand fumble across his shoulder, grab for a hold and end up anchoring on his suspenders. A hand around his brother's narrow waist, Sam stood, bringing both of them to their feet. He took a breath.

_Now what?_

The way Dean was shaking, there was no way he was going to be able to hold on behind Sam all the way to the Mission.

"Get on," Sam ordered. "I'll help you."

"Wh-what about y-you?"

"I have a plan. Kinda."

To his credit, Dean tried valiantly to push his foot into the stirrup, but Sam saw quickly he lacked the strength.

"I gotcha, man," Sam said, awkwardly boosting Dean upward.

It took every bit of his strength as Dean was more or less dead weight, but he got his brother's right leg over the saddle. Using his shoulder and hands, he shoved Dean up and over, steadying him once he was in the saddle, sending a wordless benediction to the horse gods for keeping the mare silent and still through the whole ordeal. Dean slumped forward over the horse's neck and Sam took another breath.

"If we get out of this," he said to no one in particular, "I swear I will never again complain about driving everywhere."

Without the aid of Dean's arm to boost him, Sam swung up behind the saddle, fumbling for the mare's reins. He pulled Dean upright, resting his brother against his chest as his arms acted liked a frame.

"I miss the Impala," Sam confessed as he used his hips and thighs to nudge the horse forward.

After a few moments, he realized that steering her was going to be a challenge and scooted as far forward as he could. It was then, though, that Dean's body gave in to the abuse and he felt his brother go boneless in his arms.

"_Dammit_!" Sam swore. He shook Dean roughly. "Dean! Wake up. Just for a little longer, man. DEAN!"

Dean was heavy against him, dead weight in his arms. Sam craned his neck to look down at his brother's slack profile and the absolute lack of expression on Dean's face was terrifying. Even in sleep, Dean always held a modicum of awareness, enough that Sam knew he'd come to at a moment's notice. Now, though, Dean was all-but gone; Sam felt the heat of his fever, burning through him with an unnatural patience, and he was suddenly afraid. It was a mind-numbing terror the likes of which he hadn't felt in years.

_This is wrong…this is all wrong._

For one moment, Sam froze. He needed someone else here, someone better than him. He needed Dad. He needed Dean. He needed—

Three quick pops of gunfire snapped him free of the paralyzing fear. He needed to _move_.

"C'mon, you Bitch," he snarled. "Move your ass!"

The mare whinnied and danced a bit, but somehow managed to pick up on Sam's instinctual thrusts and began to run. Sam hung on, one hand gripping the reins, the other the saddle horn, both arms holding his brother against him. Dean's fever radiated through his body into Sam's, breaking out a sweat along Sam's chest.

After what felt like forever the Mission came into view. Sam willed the horse toward the building, having no idea if he was actually doing anything to steer her. Pulling back on the reins as they reached the empty paddock area, Sam practically sat the mare on her haunches to get her to stop running.

"Zeke!" he shouted.

Dean listed against Sam's right arm, his head falling forward. Sam shifted him up, resting him once more against his chest, looking desperately between the Mission and the barn.

"ZEKE!"

He didn't see another horse in the yard, but that didn't mean Zeke hadn't hidden Hooker in the barn. Sam was trying to figure out how he was going to get both of them off the horse without dropping Dean in the dirt when a thin, dark-haired man wearing long black robes appeared in the doorway.

"What's the trouble, my son?"

Sam felt a strange rush of fear and relief. "Are you Father Ramirez? Pablo Ramirez?"

"I am," Ramirez stepped out, grabbing the mare's bridle and steadying the horse.

"I don't have time to explain, but my brother needs your help." Sam eased Dean forward until he was slumped over the saddle horn, his arms hanging limply on either side of the mare's neck.

"You called for Zeke," Ramirez said. "Did you mean Ezekiel McAdams?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded as Ramirez reached up and steadied Dean's still form. He slipped off the horse's flank and found his footing on shaky legs. "He was supposed to meet us here."

"He hasn't arrived," Ramirez said.

"I was afraid of that," Sam muttered, reaching up for Dean. Ramirez released Dean's arm and Sam let his brother slip sideways, staggering a bit as Dean's full weight filled his arms. "Jesus, he's heavy," Sam grunted.

"Take him inside," Ramirez instructed. "Up to the front. I'll be right behind you."

Sam carried Dean in an awkward, staggering gait into the Mission; his head hung over the edge of Sam's arm, his legs swayed with the movement, one arm flung outward, the other tucked up against Sam's body. Sam made it up to the front, nearly dropping Dean as he laid him on the stone floor beneath the altar filled with burning votive candles. Breathing heavily, he looked around, realizing this was the same place Dean had struggled with Jake just yesterday.

_Yesterday…and a hundred years from now._

"Tell me what is needed," Ramirez said as he entered the Mission.

"Holy Water," Sam said, running the back of his hand across his grit-covered face. "Lots of it."

Without question, Ramirez nodded and disappeared through a stone archway. Sam unbuttoned Dean's shirt, exposing his brother's sweaty, bare chest. The bandage Zeke had wrapped around Dean's middle was soaked through with pus and blood.

"God, Dean," Sam whispered, dragging his hands down his face, willing his nausea away.

Ramirez returned, a deep basin of water in his hands. "My guess is, God had nothing to do with this," the priest said.

"You got that right, Father."

"Cut away the bandages," Ramirez said as he removed his rosary from around his neck.

Sam patted his pockets, finding nothing, before it occurred to him that Dean was still wearing his own boots. He reached into the hidden pocket of Dean's left boot and pulled out a small throwing knife, quickly slicing the sharp blade up through the bandages and parting them. The smell that wafted up from the wounds on Dean's side had Sam gagging, then turning his face away and breathing through his mouth.

"We haven't much time," Ramirez said, and began to rapidly whisper a blessing as he moved his fingers quickly along the beads of the rosary.

Sam moved around so that he could pull Dean's head and shoulders into his lap, and reached down for his brother's limp hand. The fire in Dean's body shook him, causing his shoulders to vibrate against Sam's legs violently enough that Sam felt his eyes burning with barely-restrained tears.

"You must hold him," Ramirez said. "Very tightly."

Sam nodded, not worrying about how this man knew what to do, or why to do it. All that mattered was that he _was_ doing it.

Ramirez lifted the basin and Sam gripped Dean's hand, the other digging into Dean's shoulder. As the first drops of blessed liquid poured on Dean's wounds, the smell intensified and Dean bucked, his jaw tight as if holding in the pain.

"Easy," Sam whispered, unable to restrain his tears. He felt them spill over, run down his cheeks, drop onto his brother's face to mix with Dean's sweat. "Easy, man, I gotcha. I gotcha."

Ramirez, Sam realized vaguely, was praying as he poured. The ugly, swollen wounds began to bubble up as the poison and infection escaped. Another pour and Dean started screaming. His neck arched, shoving his head further into Sam's lap and the tendons along his neck popped out, tense and tight. His face was red, his voice hoarse, and still he screamed.

Steam began to rise from the wounds and Dean began to beg, his eyes open, unseeing, searching everywhere, landing on nothing.

"Stop! _God_, Dad! Sam! Stop…make it stop!"

"I can't, Dean, I'm so sorry, man. I can't stop it."

"Fuck…no, no more…ah…_God_…."

His pleas were incoherent; Sam knew he wasn't truly conscious. The fever was too hot, the pain too much. He was simply reacting, doing everything he could to maintain control and keep the scream that had all-but ripped him apart at bay. It was, Sam knew, instinctual for Dean to show as little weakness as possible. Even now.

"I gotcha, big brother. I'm here. I'm not gonna let go."

"'s so hot…so fuckin' hot…."

Sam lifted panicked eyes to the priest, tightening his hold as Dean's seizure-like jerks nearly pulled him free of Sam's grasp.

"It is the Holy Water," Ramirez hastily explained. "It is burning the poison out of him."

With perfect recall, Sam suddenly remembered the liquid fire that had poured down his face just before Dean had bandaged his cheek. Looking at his brother's steaming wounds, he nearly stopped breathing.

"Son of a _bitch_…I wanna go…Sammy…let's go home…."

"We will Dean, I swear to fuckin' God we're going home. Just hang on, okay…just hang in there. I'm right here…I'm here…."

He held onto his brother as Dean thrashed, kept speaking, low and soft, into his brother's ear, losing himself in the hellish sound of Dean's pain, losing track of where his tears ended and Dean's began.

It felt like years when Dean's cries finally quieted, his body beginning to still.

Sam looked up to see Dean's eyes roll closed, the lines on his face smoothing as unconsciousness took him completely. Sam was hollow, spent; his hair was clinging to his face with sweat, his eyes swollen and burning from exhausted emotion. The last few drops of Holy Water spilled onto Dean's side and Ramirez sat back on his heels, breathless, his eyes also filled with tears as he looked at Sam.

"It's over," he said. "It's done."

Sam looked at Dean's side and saw the swollen, putrid skin was now smooth, pink. The wounds were still there, but now resembled mere scratches much like the wounds on their faces had looked just before they'd slipped through time. Dean still trembled, but it felt more like aftershocks than the frightening vibrations of the fever burning him from the inside out.

"His fever?" Sam asked, his voice raw.

"Will subside," Ramirez said. "I will give him something to help. He will be weak from this ordeal, but he will recover."

Sam sagged over Dean, his forehead on his brother's sweaty shoulder, his tears escaping from him without shame. He felt a hand on his back and brought his head up, sniffing.

"Zeke?"

The saloon owner's face was wet and dirt-streaked. There was a cut on his forehead that had bled into his eyebrow. His eyes matched Ramirez's in relief, weariness, and wonder.

"I saw," Zeke said in a choked, heavy voice. "I saw what you…what you risk…doing what you do."

Sam watched as Zeke's eyes tracked down Dean's limp body.

"I saw," Zeke repeated, as if he couldn't quite absorb that reality.

Sam looked past him. "Jake?"

Zeke shook his head. "I couldn't find him," he confessed. Licking his lips, he looked at Ramirez. "We were at…Ivers' place. Looking for a friend of theirs." He looked back at Sam. "One of his men—a real fat bastard—grabbed me. I thought I was done. And then…," he looked back down at Dean, his eyes wide and slightly shocky, "someone turned the horses loose."

"That was us," Sam said.

"I kinda figured."

"So, Jake's still there?"

Zeke nodded.

Sam looked at Ramirez. "Ivers is coming after you," he said, feeling weak, his head spinning dizzily as he stayed curled over Dean in instinctive protection. "He's…he's a bad…_bad_ bad guy."

"He is a demon," Ramirez said calmly. "A fact which I'm sure you know."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, but…how do _you_ know that?"

Ramirez took a breath, his calm eyes on Dean. "Let's take your brother to my rectory," he said. "I will tell you more there."

"Let me help," Zeke said, moving to Dean's feet.

Sam wasn't sure he could stand; he'd been sitting on his folded legs after riding the mare. He looked up at Ramirez, trying to figure out how to ask for help.

"Please," Ramirez said. "Allow me."

Sam eased Dean's head down to the stone floor and scooted out from beneath him, using one of the nearby wooden benches to pull himself shakily to his feet. He watched as between them, the priest and the saloon owner gently lifted his brother and carried him through the stone archway. Sam followed, glancing back at the mess of water and blood—Dean's blood—they left behind on the Mission floor.

"You will find a towel in the wardrobe there," Ramirez said as he turned away from the bed where they lay Dean. "Some water and bread here. Please, rebuild your strength."

Sam nodded his thanks, slipping his suspenders from his shoulders and pulled off the wet, collarless shirt, the long underwear still covering his sweat-chilled body. He used the towel to rub down his face, wiping the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck.

Ramirez eased Dean out of his shirt, then used the blade of the throwing knife to cut another towel into strips. Zeke carefully wrapped Dean's torso with the tied-together strips, protecting the healing cuts from the dust that permeated the air around them. Ramirez wiped Dean's sweaty face and neck with the edge of a wet towel, carefully dabbing at the cut Jake had administered in this very building.

Sam watched them with detachment, his body thrumming wearily. He felt himself shaking from the inside out—after-effects of the battle he'd just fought for his brother's life. He was so tired…so tired. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep for a week.

But they weren't safe, and Dean was still vulnerable like this, so Sam simply sat heavily on the foot of the bed. Dean's boot rolled to rest in the small of Sam's back. Sam had to smile at the comfort contact with his brother brought him, even when Dean had no idea.

"He's gonna be okay?" Sam couldn't help but ask again.

"He's gonna be fine, Sam," Zeke said. "Those cuts look almost healed."

"He will be very weak," Ramirez cautioned. "His spirit has been battling the demon that wounded him. Such a fight weakens even the most stalwart of souls. He needs time to heal. On the inside."

"Yeah, well," Sam sighed, eyeing his brother's profile, "Dean's the toughest person I know."

"You must listen to me," Ramirez said. "He needs time to regain his strength. And you cannot go up against this demon alone."

"You're a…hunter?" Sam asked. He was unable to mask his surprise, though he'd instinctively known the truth the moment Ramirez began to bless the water.

Ramirez looked at Zeke.

"He knows," Sam said.

"I know," Zeke nodded, dabbing at the blood on his forehead with the edge of a towel.

"But do you know the dangers of this life?" Ramirez asked, his voice soft, serious.

Zeke looked at Dean's pale, still face. "I do now," he said.

"This isn't a job, Zeke," Ramirez said. He moved over to Dean and laid a damp cloth across Dean's forehead. "It isn't leaving the life of a physician to become a saloon owner. This is who you are. You become a hunter, you are _never_ anything else."

Sam listened, hearing the truth in the priest's words, and feeling his stomach turn to ice in reaction. Echoing in his head as if stemming from a different person, he heard his own words to Dean in the motel room in Chicago.

_What if this whole thing was over tonight? Man, I'd sleep for a month. Go back to school—be a person again._

He looked over at his unconscious brother.

_It's never gonna be over. There's gonna be others. There's always gonna be somethin' to hunt._

"Listen, I said I know what _they_ do," Zeke was saying to the priest. "I didn't say _I_ wanted to do it."

"But you need to understand their purpose if you are to help them battle this demon."

"Uh, Father?" Sam broke in. "Listen, no offense, but…right now I don't know if I care about Ivers. I just want to get my brother home."

Ramirez frowned. "Those wounds on your brother, they were from a demon," he said.

"Yeah, you're right." Sam nodded. "But Ivers didn't do it. It's, uh, kinda more complicated than that."

Ramirez sat back. "Tell me."

Sam and Zeke exchanged a look.

"Tell him," Zeke prompted. "I could handle it. So can he."

Sam looked down, feeling his heart twist inside of him as he was forced to once again go against every instinct that screamed: _run, hide, be silent, be still_.

"Father," he started, swallowing, "we're hunters, you're right about that, but, uh…we're not from…_here_."

"That much I determined for myself," Ramirez replied.

"I mean, we're _really_ not from here," Sam looked up, meeting the priest's eyes squarely. "We got…trapped in a spell and were, uh…_transported_ here."

"From…where?"

"From _when_ actually," Sam said. "We're from 2005."

"The year two thousand and five," Ramirez repeated slowly, folding his arms across his body, his mouth bowed in thought.

Sam nodded. "This guy…Jake, the one that we were looking for…he's convinced there's something here. Some weapon or something. He performed a ritual to send him back in time and…my brother and me got caught in it when we tried to stop him."

"This is very troubling," Ramirez said, looking at the ground. "Every life you've encountered since you've been here has been shifted off its path. Including my own."

"I know," Sam said softly. "Believe me…we didn't want this."

"This man who performed the ritual," Ramirez said, his eyes resting on nothing. "Did he know about the demon?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I mean…it's possible. But…I think he just wants this weapon."

"What kind of a weapon?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know that either. Could be a book, or an amulet, or a sigil, or…hell, an actual _weapon_ weapon."

Dean shifted, a soft moan slipping free; Sam felt a tremor run through his brother's body and he rested his hand on Dean's leg. Dean went still with that contact and Sam reached up to remove the cloth from Dean's face, noting that it had sucked up the heat from Dean's body.

Dipping the cloth into the basin Ramirez had used, he wrung out the excess water and laid it gently across Dean's forehead once more before returning his focus to Ramirez. He kept his hand on Dean's leg for both assurance and support.

"There are rumors of such a weapon," Ramirez said softly, turning back to the wardrobe and lifting out several heavy-looking, leather-bound books. "Tom O'Maera spoke to me about it before the demon took his life."

Zeke blinked, surprised. "Tom? Tom was one of…of _them_?"

"A hunter," Ramirez nodded, setting the books down on a small, bare desk positioned near the head of the bed. "Yes. He tried to leave the life, to be simply a rancher with Kate and his children. However," Ramirez looked back toward Sam and Dean, "evil recognizes good as surely as good recognizes evil."

"Ivers knew about Tom?" Sam guessed.

"It is why Tom stayed in Sulfur Springs," Ramirez said softly. "He learned of Ivers and he wanted to protect the gate."

"The gate...," Zeke muttered. "Ivers said something about a gate when he attacked Dean."

"You mean back in the saloon?" Sam asked, glancing down as his brother shifted on the bed, his mouth turning down in a frown.

"He called Dean a _hunter_ and said something about being close to opening the gate."

"He is," Ramirez said, opening one of the books and pulling out a sketch of a map. "This," he pointed to a spot on the map, "is Ivers' ranch. This is Sulfur Springs. This is Tom O'Maera's ranch. This is Dawson's old place."

"Dawson?"

"Sheriff," Zeke reminded him. "Not that _that_ matters much."

"And here," Ramirez pointed to another spot on the map, "is the fifth location." Using a narrow piece of charcoal he fished from his pocket, he connected the points on the map, then drew a circle around it.

"Hey, I know that," Sam said, tilting his head as he looked at the symbol. "My dad…he keeps a journal. I saw it in there."

Ramirez nodded. "It's called a Devil's Trap. The gate is at the epicenter."

"The…gate to…what, exactly?" Zeke asked.

Ramirez looked over at him. "Hell."

Zeke's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Oh."

Sam rubbed his face. "This just gets better and better."

"What's stopping him from just…doing what you did? Drawing it out on a map?" Zeke asked.

"He knows where the gate is. For this gate to open, he must be in possession of the points of origin," Ramirez explained. "Or so it's been written. Therefore, all he need do is find a way to possess the fifth location."

"What's there?" Sam asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. "Another ranch?"

Ramirez shook his head. "San Jose de Valero. This Mission."

"How does he…get possession of the Mission?" Sam asked, his voice closing around the edges of his words.

Ramirez sighed, the lines on his face smoothing out, and Sam knew. He knew why Ivers wanted Ramirez gone.

"He has to get rid of you, doesn't he?" Sam asked.

Ramirez nodded.

"This is just…all kinds of crazy," Zeke sighed. He began to pace in the small confines of the room. "I mean, I thought I knew crazy, y'know? Grew up with Abigail McAdams, for one. Survived a war. Own a saloon in Sulfur Springs, Texas, but this? This takes the cake."

"I think your friend found this weapon," Ramirez said to Sam, smoothly bypassing Zeke's frenzied ramblings, "in his research, but what he didn't realize, perhaps, is that the reason it is here, now, in this time…is to protect the gate."

Sam sighed. "Well…all I know is, I've been doing this all my life, and I've never heard about a gate to Hell being opened in Texas in 1870."

"So, that means Ivers won't be successful," Zeke concluded, smiling as he tossed his hands up as if to say _there, you see_.

"Unless we do—or did—something that screws that up," Sam sighed, resting a hand on Dean's leg. "Like you said, Father, us just being here has already messed with people's lives."

Ramirez continued to flip through the pages in one of the books. "You never really know what God has planned for us. Perhaps you and your brother are the very reason Ivers fails. Perhaps your presence has had a ripple effect through the town that results in a revolution."

"A revolution?" Sam scoffed. "Against a demon?"

Ramirez looked at him. "If properly armed with knowledge, people can accomplish amazing things."

Sam looked down. "Something tells me that defeating Ivers isn't going to be enough to get us home."

Sam felt Dean shift again and realized suddenly that his brother was awake. Dean hadn't made a sound, but the increased pressure of his leg against Sam's back told him that one some level, Dean had been listening, absorbing the information saturating the air around them.

Sam turned, half leaning toward his brother. Dean's hooded eyes were dark, sunken into his face. His skin was grayish with splashes of color across his cheeks, and his lips were dry, but he was awake, aware.

"Hey," Sam said softly, watching Dean's heavy eyes blink back at him. "You're okay, Dean. You're safe."

"Holy Water?" Dean rasped.

Sam nodded, leaning forward, his fingers curling into Dean's grip and anchoring him. His hand was still hot, the fever slow to abate. "Yeah, Father Ramirez…he blessed the water. Saved your ass."

Dean's eyes didn't move from Sam's face. A shiver worked through him and Zeke moved in quietly to remove the damp cloth and cover Dean's bare chest with a thin, coarse blanket. He tipped a cup of water to Dean's mouth, holding the back of his head until Dean had taken a couple of sips.

"Thanks," Dean whispered, looking at his brother.

Sam felt Dean curl his fingers in their grip. The tears that had flowed freely as Dean thrashed from the pain of healing threatened a return and he swallowed them back. "We're okay," he said, unable to find any other words inside of him. "We're okay, man."

Dean's eyes closed once more and Sam sniffed, keeping his hand in his brother's heated one. He knew Dean wasn't asleep; he could feel the tension in his brother's body.

"Defeating Ivers might not be the key to your return," Ramirez said softly. "But I believe I found something that will."

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"There is a ritual in this book," Ramirez told him, "that speaks to a journey the likes of which you described."

"A book?" Sam repeated, incredulous. "Jake and his friends tortured a demon to get the ritual…and you found it in a book?"

"It's a very old book," Ramirez replied with a shrug.

"Sam…," Dean whispered. Sam looked at him, closing his mouth on his retort. He understood his brother was asking with that one word to know what they had to do next.

Sam nodded, his shoulders sagging a bit. "What's that very old book tell you, Father?"

"Blood of the innocent brought you here," Ramirez said, his finger training down the words on the page.

"Yeah, the dude cut my brother," Sam growled.

"Blood of the guilty will send you back," Ramirez said.

"Guilty?" Sam frowned.

"Jake," Dean said, his voice a harsh punch of sound. Three sets of eyes turned to face him. "He means Jake."

Ramirez nodded, smiling softly at Dean. "The spell is countered only by blood from the one guilty of the sin."

"So…no suprachiasmatic nucleas?" Sam asked.

Zeke looked at him, surprise plain on his face. "How the _hell_ do you even know what that is?"

"I read a lot," Sam replied. "What about the herbs and the skin from the calf and all of that?"

"Good Lord," Zeke breathed, running a hand through his hair and causing it to stick up in a short Mohawk.

Ramirez was shaking his head. "Your hold in this time is tenuous. It hinges only on the blood of the one who triggered the journey. It is only as strong as his resolve. With his blood, you return."

"So…," Sam looked at the three other men. "What does this mean?"

"It means," Dean said, slowly, his hooded eyes pinned to his brother, his voice aged, worn. "It means…we're going back to that place…we're getting Bird's family out of there," he paused to take a steadying breath, "and we're gonna kill Jake."

"Dean, no," Sam breathed, shaking his head in denial. He looked to Ramirez. "Jake didn't have to kill Dean to make it work the first time…are you…are you _sure_?"

"I am not certain, Sam," Ramirez said sadly. "It simply says that the blood of the guilty will release your hold in this time. I'm afraid that it implies…if you are to return home, this man must die."

"But, Dean," Sam leaned forward, curling his fingers tightly into Dean's grip. "Your blood was innocent _because _you've never killed a human before."

Dean leveled weary eyes on him and Sam saw something shift in the green depths. Where for so many hours there had been pain, resolve began to reemerge, and where he'd seen glimpses of true fear, Sam now saw something close to cold fury.

He felt a slow shiver build from his gut and wrap around one thought: he was glad Dean was on his side.

"That's gonna change," Dean said simply.

* * *

**a/n: **Thanks for reading! The woods get a might darker and deeper from here…


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1.

**a/n**: Thanks so much for reading and for all of your lovely, thoughtful comments. These last several weeks have been a struggle for me in real life and your feedback—and the fact that you're having fun with this story and taking it exactly as I've intended: as entertainment and for enjoyment—has really kept me going.

It's a good thing I had most of this story finished before I started posting or I'd never have been able to keep with the one-chapter-per-week posting schedule. Also, you may have noticed that the length of the chapters has returned to my usual 40-ish pages; I basically stopped trying to keep it short and decided to just tell the story.

This chapter is a necessary calm before the storm. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

_The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long before the next one puts the previous one into perspective. _

_~Robert Brault_

www

_Sulfur Springs, Texas 1870_

The first thing Dean saw when he opened his eyes was the top of Sam's head.

It seemed to be a habit, lately.

He found comfort in the sight, the nearness of his brother. In the strange, complicated life that surrounded him, Sam was a constant. If nothing else, Dean knew Sam was in the world and that knowledge staved off much of the fear he had no other way of combating. It gave him purpose, direction; watching Sam grow up had offered Dean a history he knew he wouldn't have had on his own.

For a moment, he simply laid there, the bare skin of his upper body finding comfort against the well-washed material of the sheet beneath him. The silence that surrounded the building they were hidden within was pervasive. If he held his breath, he could hear the wind peppering the side of the Mission with dust from the empty paddock area. No voices, no traffic, no music…nothing but the wind.

The bed he lay on was narrow, the mattress more of a gesture than anything else. The room was nearly bare: a wardrobe, desk, and a lantern the only adornments. There was no window; the light from the lantern bounced in odd, surreal shadows along the walls and ceiling. Unfamiliar objects, unfamiliar smells; it was all just a rhythm to remind him that even though his home was essentially the road and they were forever without grounding, this place, this _time_ was not his.

He didn't really remember falling asleep.

He remembered talking about Jake. He remembered feeling a reluctant resolve, and like they had the beginnings of an actual plan for the first time in a long, long time. Since before they'd climbed that damned elevator shaft after Meg.

And then…nothing.

An overwhelming weariness tucked up against him, wordlessly telling him he wasn't yet ready to face what was to come. Yesterday, he'd been dying. He knew that as surely as he'd known it when the volts from the weapon he used on the Rawhead rocketed through him and seized his heart.

Today, though, was different. The broken pieces inside of him that had been slicing through his will, separating his desire to fight from his ability to hold on, were starting to mend. He no longer felt that hole; he no longer felt that something was wrong, that something was fading inside of him. He felt himself healing.

He just needed a little more time….

If Sam didn't look so uncomfortable, Dean would have allowed himself to fall back into the darkness that had held him like a lover. But there was an odd tilt to Sam's head that told Dean his brother hadn't meant to fall asleep that way. Shifting slowly, Dean rolled to his right side, amazed how he felt even that small motion in every cell of his body.

His muscles protested with abbreviated whimpers of pain. His joints swore at him. His skin was alight with increased sensation, as if the air itself caressed him with scalpel-sharp blades. He managed to bite back the groan building at the base of his throat and reached out a slightly-trembling hand to rest his palm on the top of his brother's head.

Sam snuffed a bit against the side of the bed, rubbing his face against the thin mattress, and then settled down again. Vision clearing, Dean could see that Sam was sprawled alongside the bed; his back slumped against the wall by the headboard. He'd all-but nestled his head against the mattress next to the thin pillow Dean lay upon.

"Sam," Dean half-whispered, his voice sounding rusty. His throat protested the usage and threatened to close. Forcing himself to swallow, Dean flexed his fingers against Sam's scalp. "Sammy."

With a harsh inhale, Sam snapped his head up, Dean's hand dropping to the mattress. Sam stared straight ahead, his eyes wide and unseeing, having been startled conscious, but not fully awake.

"Hey," Dean said softly. "Go on and wake up, now."

When he was young, Sam had suffered from intense nightmares. Dean knew not much had changed except for how his brother was able to handle them. And now, he apparently got the added bonus of seeing visions of death behind closed eyes.

_Dad's gonna freak when we tell him about those…._

As a kid, Dean remembered, Sam would open his eyes, stare directly at him, and have no comprehension of anything that was said or done around him until Dean could get him to move and shake off the hold of the dream.

"Sam." Dean reached out again, this time resting his right hand on Sam's shoulder. If he sat up, he knew he'd be able to easily jostle Sam fully awake. The problem was he wasn't entirely sure he could move much under his own power. "Wake up, man."

He worked his fingers into the muscle of Sam's shoulder, a motion as familiar for him as tuning the timing of the Impala's engine. Sam blinked once, then again rapidly. Dean watched as his brother took a deep breath and the vacant look on his face finally subsided, reality crashing against him, making him appear so much older than his twenty-three years.

"Dean?" Sam asked, foggy-voiced as he turned sideways to meet Dean's eyes.

"Hey," Dean greeted. "Bad one, huh?"

"I was falling," Sam said.

"I've had that one," Dean told him, knowing Sam didn't comprehend how literally he meant those words.

"I think…I think I was remembering…," Sam said softly, leaning back against the wall, closing his eyes and raising a hand to grip the bridge of his nose. "Head's killing me."

"Maybe Ramirez knows Bird's trick with the herbs," Dean suggested.

With that Sam shot forward once more, then looked at Dean with wide eyes. "Are you okay?"

Dean started to nod, the intention to reassure his brother that he was always all right balanced on the tip of his tongue. But then he tried to push himself up—even to his elbow—and felt the lingering weakness that permeated his body deny him even that.

"I, uh…don't know."

"Ramirez said you'd be weak," Sam informed him, pulling his legs under him. "That you'd need some time."

"He wasn't lying," Dean groaned, rolling once more to his back.

"What do you remember?" Sam asked, grunting a bit as he took his feet.

Dean turned his head and watched Sam begin to pace stiffly in the small confines of the room. He gripped his lower back—which Dean knew had to be sore from his chosen sleeping position—and kicked his legs in an odd rocking motion with a grimace on his face.

"Enough," Dean replied. "How long was I asleep?"

Sam twisted at the waist. "Awhile. I don't really know what time it is," he said, shaking out his hands. "One minute you were with us, looking at me, then next," he shrugged, "you were out. You kinda did that off and on until they left. Then I just…," Sam made an abbreviated _you're out_ motion with his hands.

"Sorry, man," Dean said softly, trying once more to push himself upright. He didn't like the vulnerable feeling of lying down while Sam moved around. It put him at a disadvantage he didn't want to think too much about.

"Want some help?" Sam asked, moving closer.

Dean nodded, and reached out to grip his brother's forearm, pushing his other hand into the mattress and letting Sam lift him up, then scoot him back against the headboard.

_This sucks out loud._

"This is going to be interesting," Sam said softly, starting to release Dean's arm and back away.

"Sam, wait," Dean tightened his grip, feeling the thready beat of panic build in his gut and climb his spine. Sam froze, bent over the bed, his hazel eyes meeting Dean's. "Promise me you won't do this without me."

"Dean, you're a mess," Sam protested, his face folding into a frown of concern.

"I'm better than I was," Dean pointed out, feeling something churning inside of him: desperation twisting and warping and becoming determination, strength…resilience. "Just give me a little time. I'll be fine, Sam."

Sam released Dean's arm, pulling away, forcing Dean to free him. He began to pace, his gait awkward and stiff in the small space. Watching him, Dean worked through the right words to offer his brother solace and convince him that they had to do this _together_. Sam rotated, coming back toward the bed, and Dean caught a glimpse of his brother's expression.

It sent his heart into a sideways slide. He'd seen that expression before. He'd _lived_ it.

It was anger and pain and relief and resolve. It was every near-miss, every _just-about_, every moment he'd almost lost the one thing that really mattered: his brother. It was the look Sam carried through those long, painful days after the Rawhead attack and before the 'miracle' in Roy's tent. It was the ragged sorrow John had worn in the weeks after Sam had left for school.

"I was scared."

Dean blinked and tilted his head to the side, not sure he'd really heard his brother clearly.

"I was really scared, Dean," Sam repeated, his lips barely moving, his body unable to stop. "I messed up. And you were so close to…." Sam swallowed.

"I'm okay, Sam," Dean said softly.

Sam huffed. "Yeah, because we just so happened to find a priest that knew about demonic…wounds."

Dean reached up and dragged his fingers down his face. He felt the familiar calluses on his palms against his skin and noted the newer, tenderer ones as they scratched against his scruff of a beard. Skin that was more accustomed to a 1911 handgun and a steering wheel than a Colt Navy revolver and leather reins.

"I mean, what if he'd just been a regular priest, huh?" Sam was saying as he continued his quest to leave his mark in time by wearing a groove into the floor of Ramirez's rectory. His eyes were on his boots, his hands flopping at his sides in frustrated helplessness.

"A regular priest would still have known how to bless water, Sam," Dean pointed out. "You did good, kid. You did everything right."

"But it almost wasn't enough. You…_God_, Dean, you screamed so loud…I've never…," Sam swallowed, continuing his pacing.

"I…I don't remember that part," Dean confessed.

The last clear memory he had of the previous night was firing his weapon to start the stampede of horses. Everything after that until they were in this room, talking to Ramirez about the ritual was a blur of colors and sounds and…pain.

Gingerly, he touched his side, felt the loose bandages there, the tender skin. It felt like a fading sunburn, not the white-hot, bone-deep ache of the previous day. He looked at his biceps, saw the purplish bruises the shape of fingers, knew that his brother had held him there, had kept him close and still while the priest had used the Holy Water to chase the demon away.

"I remember you," Dean said softly, drawing his brother to a halt. "I…I remember your voice."

"That was…I don't ever want to go through something like that again, Dean," Sam confessed, listing slightly to the side.

Dean swallowed, trying to remember if he'd said _thank you_. "Sit down a minute."

"I don't want to," Sam replied, not meeting Dean's eyes.

"Sit down," Dean repeated, firmly. He watched as Sam carefully lowered himself to the edge of the bed. "What's the matter with you?"

"I'm…," he looked away, then shoved a hand through his hair. "I'm sore as hell, man," he finally confessed. "I'm not built to ride freakin' horses."

Laughter burbled out of Dean before he could catch it.

Sam glared at him. "Shut up."

Dean laughed harder. Tears began to gather at the corners of his eyes and he held a hand limply over the sore muscles of his belly, his fingertips resting on the bandages there. After a moment, Sam's lips quirked up, and as Dean weakly wiped at his eyes, Sam's dimples flashed and his shoulders shook as he chuckled.

"Okay, so it's a _little_ funny."

Dean leaned back against the headboard, sighing, latent hiccups of hilarity skittering up as he worked to gain control. "Sorry, Sammy."

"No, you're not," Sam shook his head, still grinning. "I think you actually _like_ it here."

"Are you high?" Dean swallowed, slowly sobering.

"C'mon, man. You have the tricked out gun-slinger rig going for you. You're like a freakin' Horse Whisperer…you'd fit right in."

"Sam, my body feels like a cracked egg that was lit on fire, I'm gritty, I _stink_, and I haven't heard Metallica in three days."

Sam folded his lips down in a good-natured frown of concession. "So what you're saying is…you want to go home."

"Hell yes, I want to go home," Dean exclaimed. "Why do you think I want you to take me with you?"

"Because you don't trust me to get the job done," Sam replied instantly, innocently.

Dean blinked in complete surprise. "What?"

Sam shrugged. "I just…I figured you didn't think I could find Jake on my own."

Dean shook his head, closing his eyes a moment. "Sam…you are probably the dumbest smart kid I've ever met." He tipped his chin, catching Sam's eyes with his. "You think I don't know you could take care of you and me and a hunt on your own if you had to?"

"Well…I…."

"I_ know_ you could, Sam," Dean informed him with conviction.

He ignored the burr of fear that buried itself under his skin at the thought of becoming obsolete, insignificant, unnecessary. One day, Sam was going to leave him again. He'd as much given him permission to. And he knew his brother. He knew Sam had to believe that Dean knew he could handle himself.

"I _know_ you," Dean said softly. "You haven't needed me in a long time."

"That's not tr—"

Dean held up a hand. "Not in that way," he amended quickly. "We're family. We're always going to…y'know, _need_ each other. Just like we're always gonna need Dad, even if he is a stubborn ass."

Sam bounced his eyebrows in a nod and looked down at his hands resting in his lap.

"But you're smart, Sam. And you're…y'know…decent with a gun." Dean grinned, though Sam didn't look up. He sighed, thinking. "You gotta be able to kinda…look at the world sideways in this job."

"No kidding," Sam muttered, picking at the palm of his hand.

"You gotta make judgment calls that nobody else has to make. Ever. You gotta live on this…edge."

Sam held himself very still as he listened. Dean continued.

"Thing is…you're never alone on that edge, Sam. I'm always there with you."

"I know," Sam whispered.

"And _I_ know the same is true for you," Dean informed him. "I trust you."

"Yeah?" Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Hell, yeah." Dean poked at him with his foot. Sam smiled at him. A real smile, but with too much thought lingering in his eyes for Dean to call it _happy_. "I just need to be part of this, y'know? See this one through."

Sam nodded, taking a breath. "But this time we go in with a plan."

"I'm a fan of plans," Dean replied.

"Whatever, Mr. I'm Making This Up As I Go," Sam scoffed. "Name one plan you've made."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Elevator shaft in the Chicago warehouse with the shotguns."

Sam pushed himself to his feet. "Oh, 'cause _that_ worked out so well." He grabbed Dean's black shirt from the desk and handed it to him.

"You didn't say it had to be a _successful_ plan," Dean pointed out, shoving his arms in the sleeves. The cloth felt slightly damp, but smelled fresh, as if someone had taken the time to wash the sweat—and, presumably, blood—from the material during the night. As he buttoned up the front of the shirt, he glanced toward the table and the flickering lantern. "Speaking of plans…where's the priest? And Zeke?"

Sam frowned. "Good question. After you fell asleep, Zeke was trying to get Ramirez to high-tail it outta here before we brought hell back with us from Ivers' place."

"He can't do that," Dean protested. "He leaves and—"

"I am not leaving," Ramirez's calm voice informed them from the doorway.

Sam turned quickly and Dean brought his head up.

"I have already made that mistake once," Ramirez said as he entered the room, a tray of bread, water, and something that looked like beans balanced in his hands. "I allowed my fear to control me and I abandoned my calling." He set the tray down on the table, shaking his head solemnly.

"Ivers scared you," Dean said, somewhat surprised by this realization.

"He did," Ramirez nodded. "You see, I didn't know the face of the demon," he turned toward Dean. "I only knew that one would come. I stayed here, safe from the events taking place in town, ignoring even the words of warning from Tom O'Maera. I did not _want _this fight to come to me. But then…I saw him kill Cutter."

"What did you see, exactly?" Dean asked. _How did you know he was a demon?_

John had never told him how to tell if someone were actually a demon. Knowing what he knew now, Dean had to wonder why. He'd read about tests and indications in John's journal after his dad left, but with the exception of the Daeva, he'd not yet encountered a true _demon_. It wasn't until he saw Ivers' eyes slip black that he knew…_really_ knew that they were, in a word, screwed.

Ramirez looked directly at him, and the contrast of fire and serenity in the man's eyes was disconcerting. It took everything in Dean to not look away.

"I saw his eyes," the priest said simply.

Sam moved to the tray, pouring water into one of the mugs and handing it to his brother. Dean took it gratefully and drank deeply, feeling the cool liquid splash down in his belly, filing his body with languid relief. He took the bread from Sam and began to eat.

_It's no cheeseburger, but it'll do…._

"What'd you mean…you didn't want this fight to come to you?" Dean asked around a mouthful of bread.

Ramirez folded his arms, his dark eyes trained on the floor. "There aren't many in this town who still visit this Mission. At first, it was a slow attrition. People were struggling at the end of the war…the town…it suffered."

The priest looked up, taking the brothers in with a glance. "I had been charged with the protection of this Mission. I was given guidance, instructions. I was told that there would come a day when San Jose de Valero could be all that stood between salvation and evil. I believed it. But I didn't believe I would be the one to face it."

"Life's just full of surprises, huh?" Dean commented.

"Ivers took over this town. Slowly, over the last year, he drained it of life. I watched it happen. I _let it_ happen." Ramirez covered his eyes. Taking a breath he lifted his head. "But the moment he took that man's life—for nothing…_nothing_—I felt something awaken inside me. And I feared it."

"Y'know, it's funny," Sam said softly. "Zeke said that moment changed something for him, too."

"Did he?" Ramirez asked.

"So, let me get this straight," Dean said, resting his head back against the wall and trying to decide which he wanted more: a stiff drink or a cup of coffee. His system was thirsty for something strong, potent, bracing. "You've lived here for years, knowing there was a gate to freakin' Hell in your back yard, and when you saw some guy taking over the town and killing people…it didn't occur to you that it might be the big bad you'd been warned about?"

Dean didn't miss Sam's frown. Ramirez was silent for a moment, then nodded.

"That is correct," he nodded. "It is not a natural to assume that the evil _inside_ a man is more than the man himself."

"Says you," Dean scoffed.

"Dean," Sam shushed him.

"I understand that you're upset," Ramirez started.

"No, see, I don't think you really do," Dean rebutted.

His instinct was to rise, to face this man, to square off with the level of intensity he felt burning behind his eyes. But he body rebelled and as he pushed himself forward, his belly muscles began to tremble, his eyes blurring. He felt rather than saw Sam tense up next to him as he sank back against the headboard.

"No offense, Padre," Dean continued, irritated that his voice betrayed him with a breathy weakness. "I owe you for this." He touched his side. "And I won't forget that. But my brother and me…we've been fighting shit like this our whole lives." He shook his head. "I just...I can't make it make sense. A demon is here, now, and a hundred years from now a hunter finds him…but now _we're_ here and you could have stopped it a year ago….."

"I did not know—"

Dean held up a hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know. There was no way you could have known. I get that. It's just…," he sighed and looked over at Sam. "This whole thing…it's all just…."

"Messed up," Sam said softly.

"Yeah, that's exactly what it is. Messed up." Dean nodded, talking more to himself than Ramirez as he continued. "You've got stuff in that book that we've just _started_ to learn about…and we've been doing this for so damn long…."

"It is still possible that you two being here is more than a simple accident."

"Yeah, well," Dean groaned, closing his eyes. "It's also possible that Lee Harvey Oswald wasn't alone."

Ramirez opened his mouth, but Sam held up a hand. "Don't," he pleaded. "Just…go with it."

"We are all in this now," Ramirez said quietly. "Whether or not we wish it."

Dean kept his head back but opened his eyes, finding his brother. Sam pulled off a piece of bread and put it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"Somehow…Ivers was defeated," Sam said. "In our history, I mean."

Dean nodded, following his line of thinking. "If we don't buy into the whole _we were always supposed to be here _theory, then our job isn't to stop him," he agreed. "It's to get Jake and get the hell out."

Sam stopped chewing and swallowed hard. "You still think…I mean, are you really going to kill him?"

"You wanna go home?" Dean shot back, feeling his heart sink as he spoke. He was a hunter. He wasn't a killer. But if it meant getting them back…if it meant protecting his brother…. "Don't see much of a choice here, Sam."

"I don't like this," Sam grumbled. "Just…it feels wrong."

There was silence in the room for a moment as each man sank into his own thoughts.

"I pray you make it safe back to your time," Ramirez said, pausing at the door as he turned to leave. "This is not where you are meant to be." He lifted his eyes and met Dean's once more, the peace in his voice a mask for the turmoil on his face. "You have a job to do. And it isn't finished."

Dean felt his heart stutter. For a moment he couldn't breathe. He simply stared at Ramirez as the priest left the room. The food in his mouth turned to ash, the water changing to acid in his belly.

"Well that was…cryptic," Sam grumbled, eating once more. "Larabee was right; he does talk in riddles. I wonder where…Dean? Hey, you okay, man?"

"He said the same thing," Dean managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Who?" Sam asked setting his bread down and moving closer to his brother, his brows fisted in worry. "Said what?"

"LeGrange," Dean clarified, clearing his throat. "When I went…y'know, to his house? Before we figured out about the wife…he said those same words."

"About having a job to do?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded, feeling his heart resume its normal rhythm as Sam stepped away. "Why would…what's that even mean? A job to do? A hunt?"

Sam took a sip of water. "Maybe it's just…y'know…existential religious rhetoric."

Dean blinked at him. "Did you just use the word rhetoric in a sentence?"

Sam smirked, then sobered. "Listen, I wouldn't make too much of it," he said. "Pastor Jim used to say stuff like that to us all the time, remember? That we were…special. Meant for something more and all that?"

"Yeah, but," Dean lifted a shoulder. "I just figured he was trying to get under Dad's skin."

"He probably was," Sam nodded. "Kinda reminds me of Jim, y'know."

"Who, Ramirez?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "He's got that same…I don't know…calm personality."

"He's a priest and a hunter…it's not a big leap, Sam."

"Dude…Ramirez saved your ass last night."

Dean shook his head. "No, _you_ saved my ass."

"I got you here," Sam conceded, "but without him…that fever would have burned you up and I…," Sam faltered for a moment. "Anyway, he was probably just trying to get you ready to…y'know…fight."

"Maybe," Dean sighed. "Kinda…I don't know…weird to find out there were hunters back then. I mean now. I mean…oh, hell."

"I know what you mean," Sam said, sparing him. "I had this idea that it was just Dad. I mean, for the longest time, I thought Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim were just…."

"What? Dad's drinking buddies?"

"Kinda, yeah," Sam chuckled.

"Well, I didn't want—I mean _we_ didn't, Dad and me—want you to have to know, Sam."

Sam slipped a sly look his direction and Dean looked away. Sometimes his brother saw too much.

"We met Caleb like a year after you finally told me the truth," Sam reminded him.

"Yeah, I remember," Dean nodded, realization sinking in. "You mean…_that's_ when you figured out that Bobby and Jim were…?"

"In on the big family secret?" Sam finished for him. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Huh," Dean bounced his head. "Now…I kinda wonder."

"What?"

Shrugging Dean twisted his silver ring around his finger in thought. "Y'know…just if there are more out there. In our time. I mean, if a rancher and a priest in the old west…."

He let the thought hang unfinished, glancing over as Sam's face closed a bit in reflection. He could practically see the thoughts ricocheting through his brother's over-active brain. It was making him anxious. He needed to get up. He needed to _move_. He needed it like he needed his next breath.

"I'd give my left arm for a shower right about now," he muttered, rubbing his face.

"Yeah, no kidding," Sam nodded. "I don't think that's happening anytime soon…unless it rains. Anyway, you should eat more. We may know _what_ have to do, but we don't know _how_ we're gonna do it."

Using the edge of the small desk, Dean pushed against it, gaining his feet. His legs felt shaky, weak, but they held him.

"What do you mean?" he pressed his brother, looking for Sam's quick mind to make the necessary connections he was simply too tired to thread together. Leaning a shoulder against the wall he poured himself more water and continued to eat the meal Ramirez had provided for them.

Around a mouthful, Sam said, "Well, first, we gotta go back up to Ivers' ranch—undetected—and get Rory out of the bunkhouse—which is heavily guarded—and rescue his mom from the house—which is where Ivers is. _Then_ we gotta find Jake and…y'know…get home."

"You make it sound like that's gonna be hard, Sammy," Dean commented.

"Well, I got an idea about one of those things," Zeke said suddenly from the door way.

Dean turned quickly to face him and nearly fell over. Without looking, Sam thrust out a hand and caught him by the elbow, holding on until Dean found his balance. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, the muscles along his inner thighs breathing a sigh of relief.

"Where've you been?" Sam asked the saloon owner.

Zeke lifted a shoulder, slipping around the edge of the doorway and leaning against the wall opposite the bed. His eyes were on the floor, his face serious. "Been out…thinking."

Dean exchanged a glance with his brother, then looked back at Zeke. "Should we be worried?"

"Kid," Zeke replied glancing up. "I were you? I'da been worried a helluva long time ago."

"Have you been drinking?" Dean asked suddenly.

Zeke cut his eyes to him. "No. But don't think I don't want to."

Dean swallowed at the strange look of empty resolve in Zeke's eyes. He was suddenly reminded of his father after a night of battling the kind of monsters that lived only in his memory. John had said once that there were things he'd seen people do to each other that no supernatural being could touch. Until they'd met the Benders, Dean hadn't really known what he meant.

Looking at Zeke now, though, he saw that same understanding in the man's hazel eyes. He saw the footprint of war, the resignation of facing another battle, more death, and the understanding that he could be the cause of it.

"What is it?" Dean encouraged Zeke to continue, registering in his periphery that Sam rested his backside against the desk, his eyes forward, his whole body tense and quiet as he listened. It was one thing that he'd always admired about his brother: when Sam really listened to someone, his did so with his whole self.

"You know I fought under General Joe Hooker in the war," Zeke began. Dean blinked, swallowing the natural inclination to smirk at the name. He hadn't registered that bit of information, but tucked it away to ask Sam for details later. "I was with him at Lookout Mountain. In Chattanooga." He looked up, his eyebrows quirking in question. "That's still there, isn't it?"

Sam nodded. "Still there. Still in Tennessee," he reassured the man.

Zeke sighed. "Good. Pretty place. Even with all the…the smoke and gunfire and…blood."

The brothers remained quiet, waiting.

"Anyway, the Rebs were set on starving out our men. See, Lookout Mountain is actually a ridge that runs along the Tennessee River. Reb artillery on top of Lookout Mountain controlled access by the river, and their cavalry launched raids on supply wagons heading toward Chattanooga. It was really only a matter of time until every one of those Union soldiers starved to death..."

Zeke ran his tongue across his bottom lip, taking a breath as his memories almost visibly wrapped around him. In that moment of brief silence, for a dizzying second Dean imagined he could hear the roar of cannons, the cry of men and horses, smell the acrid odor of gunpowder mixing with the sweet, wet scent of the mountainside. Zeke looked up and Dean caught his breath, bringing his focus back to _now_.

"It was October, y'know. Cold in Tennessee. General George Thomas found a break in the Rebel defenses and attacked Brown's Ferry, building a bridge across the Tennessee River and making it possible for our forces to link up and break through the Cracker Line."

"The what?" Sam asked, puzzled.

Zeke pressed the tips of his fingers together. "The Cracker Line—you ever hear of hardtack? It's pretty much what I ate for about three years. Called it that 'cause we were finally able to supply the Union troops with food. Anyway it was…brutal. All of it. But we won, and those soldiers didn't starve."

"What's this got to do with Ivers?" Dean asked.

Zeke pushed away from the wall, his hip cocked, stance relaxed, as if he were truly warming to his topic. "See, Thomas' plan only worked 'cause the Rebs thought they had it all tied up. They thought they had the tactical advantage on the ridge. They didn't think about us being able to use the river."

Sam narrowed his eyes. Dean looked at him, recognizing that expression. "What are you thinking, Sammy?"

"There's a river bed over behind the bunkhouse at Ivers' place," Sam said slowly, his eyes on the floor and also miles away.

Zeke nodded and moved to the wardrobe. He dug around inside for a moment then emerged with the map Ramirez had used the night before to illustrate Ivers' plan to open the gate.

"See this?" He pointed to a mark on the map.

Dean stood once more, leaning on the table to get a better look, pleased his legs felt more solid.

"About a year ago, Tom O'Maera and I built a dam here. It's on the edge of his property; he needed the additional water. Ivers ranted about it for awhile, but Tom, he…well, looking back I think he did it specifically _to_ rile Ivers up. But at the time he just talked about property lines and didn't let Ivers get to him. Lot of people 'round here think that's why Ivers ultimately killed Tom."

"Ivers was using that river as a source of water?" Sam asked.

Zeke nodded. "So I assume."

"Where's he get his water now? For all those horses?" Sam continued.

Zeke shrugged. "You got me, but I can tell you one thing. If the dam goes? That bunkhouse would be flooded in minutes. Probably smash it up."

Dean looked at Sam, already visualizing the ramifications. "They'll be looking for us to come from the ridge. Ivers has gotta be pissed our stampede took out the front porch of his house."

"Not to mention a couple of his men," Sam nodded. "But what about Rory?"

"We go during the day. My guess is they won't be in the bunkhouse," Zeke pointed out, "they'll be rounding up them horses and fixing the corral."

"So…you're saying we blow the dam, and…then what?" Sam frowned, looking over at Dean. "Not like we can time an attack on the ranch with the flood of water."

"What I wouldn't give for a cell phone right about now," Dean muttered.

Zeke shook his head. "I'm not even gonna ask."

"Zeke," Dean straightened. "How long do you think it'll take the water to get from the dam to the bunkhouse?"

Zeke shrugged. "Amount of water in that reservoir…ten minutes. If that."

Dean looked at Sam, eyebrows raised.

"No," Sam shook his head.

"What else are we gonna do, Sam?"

"That's just…insane, Dean."

"C'mon!" Dean frowned, turning his hands up in a _work with me here_ gesture. "You'd have to ride there anyway. Not like it's in walking distance."

"Everything is in walking distance if you have enough time," Sam pouted.

"That's one thing we don't have," Dean pointed out. "Ironically."

"Hey!" Zeke finally exploded. "In case you forgot, I don't have your super-special brother mind-reading powers. What the _hell_ are you two goin' on about?"

"He wants to race the water," Sam grumbled, flopping down on the edge of the bed, his hands hanging loosely between his knees.

"Do what now?" Zeke looked at Dean.

"We start at the dam," Dean explained. "When it blows, we blow. I figure we hit the ranch right when they're scrambling to deal with the flood. Everyone comes out of the house to see what the hell…we head in."

Zeke listened, absorbing Dean's—somewhat demented—logic. "Only one problem I can see."

"_One_?" Sam exclaimed.

"What's that?" Dean asked, ignoring his brother.

"You still need three people at the ranch: one to get Rory, one to get Kate, one to get Jake."

"Who's Kate?" Dean frowned.

"Bird's Mama," Zeke explained.

"Oh, right," Dean nodded. "Okay yeah, you've got a point. So…someone else has to blow the dam."

"Not Ramirez," Sam spoke up, his voice dully resigned to the inevitable. "He has to stay at the Mission."

"Sam—"

"Dean," Sam interrupted, standing up and facing his brother. "I'll go along with this insanity because I know I'm not going to be able to stop you and there's no friggin' _way_ I'm letting you go alone, but we're _not_ leaving this place unprotected."

"I know—"

"And before you say it," Sam holding up a hand, "I get that Ivers being a demon and all isn't our problem. I do. I get that he was doing his demonic thing before we even got here. I get that he's probably the whole reason Jake was able to find out about the location of the weapon and that it's not all random circumstance and it all has meaning and all of that crap. _I get it_."

"Listen, just—"

"No, _you_ listen, Dean." Sam's face was tight as he pointed at Dean's chest. "I said we had to have a plan, and we do, but…part of that plan has _got to be _to somehow help these people stay protected against Ivers. We've messed up enough lives in this town by just being here; I'm not gonna risk making the one mistake that would allow that bastard to open a friggin' _gate to Hell_."

He took a breath, folding his lips down as he stared hard at Dean.

"Are you done?" Dean asked calmly.

Sam rolled his shoulders back and nodded. "Yeah. That pretty much…y'know…covers it."

"Good," Dean said, then turned to Zeke. "You know how to find Sentenza?"

Zeke nodded, covering his mouth as if to hide the grin that was blatantly reflecting in his eyes. "He's not gonna be able to make that ride, though."

"No, but he can light a fuse."

"Oh," Sam said softly, sitting back down on the bed. "Oh."

Zeke lifted his chin in acknowledgement. "_He_ lights the fuse…and _I_ go with you," he said slowly.

Dean mirrored the man's nod. "You know the layout of the place, you're good in a fight—"

"How do you know that?"

"You survived the war, didn't you?" Dean pointed out.

Zeke tipped his head to the side in concession. "Who's gonna protect Ramirez?" he asked.

Dean looked down, thinking. He glanced at Sam and saw the same question reflected in his brother's eyes. He thought of the slender, quiet man who had saved his life.

"Think there's any way we can reach his friend, Larabee?"

Zeke rubbed his chin. "We gotta go back to town and get the dynamite…get Sam another horse…I could send a telegram, maybe, but by the time he gets it…," Zeke shrugged.

"Do we even know where he went?" Sam asked. "All he said was that he had to meet a friend. Maybe he's still in Maera."

"Sulfur Springs," Dean corrected, erasing Zeke's confused frown.

"Good point," Zeke said. "I'll put out some feelers."

"We could ask Stella," Sam suggested. "I bet she knows."

Zeke arched an eyebrow, his lips quirking, but he said nothing. Dean was about to make a comment when he heard the unmistakable low rumble of thunder. He looked at Sam, pleased to find an echoing expression of delight on his brother's face.

"C'mon," Sam said, and led the way from the room.

Dean followed, slowly, relishing the feel of his body in motion, doing what it was told, gathering strength as the damage done to his spirit by the claws of the Daeva continued to heal. There was an echoing tremble inside of him, but he felt it slowly calming.

Regardless of what he thought about God, he sure did love the Big Guy's water.

"Where the hell are you two going?" Zeke called after them.

Dean smelled it before they reached the opened archway of the Mission's main doorway: _rain_. Sharp, clean, cool. The smell of earth and gravity and new beginnings. He joined Sam at the opening and breathed deeply, shivering with pleasure as gooseflesh rose along his skin in reaction to the sudden chill in the air.

Together they watched the storm approach from the West, a wall of water falling in a thick shower from heavy clouds, beating down on the thirsty land and rumbling toward them with the power of nature unleashed. Just before the rain hit the Mission, the brothers stepped out of the doorway and in unison closed their eyes and lifted their faces. The rain poured down on them, thundering over their bodies and soaking them in moments.

The rain roared in Dean's ears, filling the hollows of his eyes, spilling down his face and running in a river from his chin to tumble to the ground and join the puddles of red earth churning around his boots. It sounded different; it wasn't rain on the metal roof of his car, hitting the blacktop of a motel parking lot, or even slamming against the glass window or prefabricated roof of a building.

It was real and raw and perfectly overwhelming.

"Are you two crazy?" Zeke yelled from the doorway, safely tucked indoors away from the downpour.

Dean ignored him. He ran his hands through his short hair, rubbing away the grit and sweat from his face and neck, scrubbing his fingers through the coarse hair that framed his jaw line. Blinking the rain from his lashes, he peered at Sam and grinned, watching as his brother shook his longer hair from his face.

"What do you think, Sam?" he yelled over the storm. "Are we crazy?"

"You bet your ass we are!" Sam yelled back, water tripping from his lips and flinging itself into the void between them.

Dean laughed, the sound filling him, permeating the left over cracks that had dug into his fragile soul when the fever had burned through him. An unfamiliar feeling of joy slipped inside of him and Dean felt…whole.

The untucked shirt clung to him, molding against the shape of his body. The black pants were plastered against his legs. He felt oddly weightless without the borrowed Colt revolver strapped to his hip, but in that moment, all that mattered was the freeing sensation of rain washing his worn and weary body. Spreading his arms wide, Dean lifted his face to the rain, the surge of the storm against his skin already beginning to wane.

_You may be right…we may be crazy…._

Crazy might be the only way to live when trapped in a world where rituals tore them from their time and where death was their only means of escape.

www

He should have known better.

All it had taken was one man looking for favor, one whisper of possibility, one kernel of suspicion. He could have avoided all of this. He was good enough—correction, he _used to be_ good enough.

He was better with Max and Leo there to back him up. They'd always been stronger as a unit. But he'd let grief warp him and his singular obsession destroyed a lifetime of friendship. He hadn't been able to hold on to the mission for long enough periods of time.

It's amazing the clarity that pain brings.

In too-bright, sharp-edged images, he recalled the fight with the demon that had taken Sean from him, the vow he'd made at his son's unmarked grave, the killings—so many killings—to get the ritual _right_, and the blood of another man's son on his hands. He heard his friend's voices in his head, pleading with him to stop, asking him to think about what he was doing, and backing him up as best they could as he continued through this nightmare.

He'd stopped screaming several minutes ago, but it was only because his voice had given in long before his consciousness. The branding iron marked his chest with a five-point star, the smell of burning hair and flesh filling his nostrils.

_Leave it to a demon to be unoriginal._

"Enough for now," Ivers finally spoke up. "Don't want to kill him quite yet."

The fat man backed away, taking with him the glowing iron. Jake sagged against the bindings that held him to the chair, his hands secured behind him, the ropes at his legs tight enough to cut off circulation. Sweat ran into his eyes and he forced himself to blink it away as he regarded Ivers.

The man stood across the room, leaning against the edge of a windowsill, his dark eyes regarding Jake with what might be misconstrued as disinterest. But Jake recognized this act. He'd seen it before: the demon that had killed Sean behaved the same way.

And he remembered that now. He remembered every agonizing minute of it.

"So, tell me," Ivers said, his voice almost amicable, as if they were sipping brandy and smoking cigars. "How do you know the hunters from the saloon?"

"I…," Jake rasped, his voice barely audible, "d-don't know what you're t-talking about."

Ivers looked almost sad, turning his hand around to casually inspect his fingernails. "That's not what I heard. I have spies everywhere in that piss-ant town. Tucked into corners like cobwebs. Watching, listening, bringing it all back to me. I miss nothing. So, you see, when I heard that you knew that little peon of a hunter _and_ his brother…I knew there had to be some truth to it."

Still looking at his nails, Ivers stepped away from the window and slowly crossed the room. The dull, rhythmic jangle of spurs sounded off with each step. Jake's eyes begged to close, his body pleaded to give in, but he knew his only hope lay in focusing on Ivers, watching for his chance.

"And that's not the only thing I heard," Ivers said, looking somewhat innocently troubled as he lifted his eyes and skipped them over Jake's haggard, sweaty face. "I heard that the inebriated idiot of a saloon owner somehow managed to kill the man that showed up with them."

Jake blinked, his stomach churning. He couldn't keep his heartbroken horror from his face. One of his friends was dead. One of the men who had once been as close to him as a brother was dead because of what he'd done.

_Which one…?_

"Oh, didn't you know?" Ivers smirked, his eyes cold coals burned into a placid face. "Brand," he said softly, running his index finger down Jake's wounded chest, pressing the tip against the weeping, burned skin. Jake groaned, his body trembling in reaction. "Ironic, don't you think?"

"Go to H-Hell, you bastard," Jake gasped.

Ivers raised his eyebrows, straightening and brushing the tip of his finger down his shirt front as if touching Jake had sullied him somehow. "Oh, I don't think so," he replied. With unnatural, inhuman swiftness he was suddenly leaning close, peering into Jake's face, his hands gripping the arm rests until Jake felt the chair shake, his eyes solid, onyx black. "I think Hell's going to come to meet me."

Jake drew back; he couldn't help himself. He'd looked into the eyes of a demon before, but it wasn't something one grew accustomed to. He had no one to blame for his predicament but himself. He'd been the one to research, to find the omens that had run rampant in this area in this exact moment in history. He had known about the gate and about Graham Ivers' obsession to be the one to open it.

And he had known the demon had been defeated.

It was the reason he'd chosen this moment in time, this place in history. It was here that the weapon had been used in a public display of execution, where people long protected from the existence of very real evil were exposed to the truth. It had confused him at first, that history had shown Ivers' defeat, but not a surge of hunters joining the fight.

_The truth is not what you know; it's what you believe._

Max had been the one to point out such a simple, basic fact to him years ago as they worked to wrap their minds around the horrors of their first war. And it was still true. The people of Sulfur Springs, TX, had defeated a monster, changed the name of their town, then gone on about their business as if evil was simply something that existed in fairytales.

"You're wrong," Jake rasped.

Ivers' eyes returned to human—or as close to human as the demon could portray—and he tilted his head in curiosity.

"You're going to die," Jake informed him.

Ivers simply raised an eyebrow. "You first."

He backed up a step, motioning the fat man with the branding iron forward. Before the fat man could move, however, the door to the small room where they sat slammed open and one of the men from the bunkhouse that Jake had never bothered to meet came in with a slim, attractive woman struggling in his grasp.

Ivers' frown was ferocious. "Explain!"

The woman stomped on her captor's foot with the heel of her boot and he cried out in pain, releasing her. She moved quickly away from him—to the other side of the room, not out and away as Jake had expected—and turned furious gray eyes on Ivers. The man who'd tried to hold her fumbled his way back out of the room.

"I want to know where Rory is," she demanded. Her black hair had been twisted into a bun at the nap of her neck but it was falling loose, flying around her fine-boned face as if it had a life of its own.

"Who the hell is Rory?" Ivers replied.

"My _son_," she spat, marching up to the man, fists clenched.

Jake felt true fear for this woman. She was a head shorter than Ivers and slim enough that even without supernatural powers Jake knew Ivers could cause her true harm. But she faced him with the unabashed fury of a mother whose child was in danger.

"We had a deal," she continued, her voice like venom. "I stay here and do whatever you tell me to and Rory is safe."

Ivers lifted a shoulder. "What makes you think he isn't?"

"He's not in the bunkhouse," she said. "No one is."

Ivers cut his eyes over to the fat man. The man spit a thin stream of tobacco juice onto the floor then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Sent 'em all out after the horses," the fat man explained. "Said you needed 'em back, Boss."

Ivers turned back to the woman, spreading his hands wide as if to say _there, you see_? It wasn't enough for her.

"Fetch him back," she demanded.

"I don't believe you're in a position to give orders," Ivers replied, his voice cold.

"You might think differently the next time you try to put that thing inside me," she practically growled. Jake grimaced at her implication, and at the sneer that found a home on Ivers' face. "I want my son back. _Now_!"

Even Jake jumped at the sound of her shout. Ivers stared at her for almost a full minute before he sighed.

"I don't know why I don't just kill you all right now," he muttered.

At that Jake lifted his increasingly-heavy head.

"Why d-don't you?" Jake asked.

Ivers looked at him. The woman looked at him, her eyes registering a level of horrific surprise that showed Jake she hadn't truly seen him before that moment. The fat man spat tobacco again.

"Are you that ready to die, Brand?" Ivers asked.

Jake suddenly felt at peace; it was a feeling of control that came over him only in moments when he found a purpose.

"I got nothin' to lose," he informed Ivers. "The only reason I'm here is to watch you get killed."

Ivers rolled his eyes. "That again," he said as if the very notion were ridiculously amusing. "Don't you know, hunter? You. Can't. Kill. Me."

"Wanna bet?" Jake retorted.

Ivers cut his eyes from Jake to the woman. "Tie her up," he ordered the fat man. "Leave her here and come with me. We've got work to do."

"What about him?" the fat man gestured toward Jake with the cooling end of the branding iron.

"I haven't decided," Ivers said, his lips pulling up to expose yellowing teeth in a snarl. "Which would you prefer, Brand? Wearing your intestines like a necktie? Take off your fingers at the knuckle and feed them to you? Deforming you feels a bit like overkill; I've already marked you for whatever remains of your miserable life."

Jake saw the woman's face pale at Ivers words, the true horror of her captor's capabilities sinking in. He looked at Ivers with dead eyes, not bothering to answer.

"Leave him where he sits," Ivers snarled at the fat man then turned toward the door, a muscle in his cheek bouncing as he stared at the humanity left in the room. "I'm about done with this place anyway."

As he slammed the door behind him, Jake felt a smile inexplicably tug up the corner of his mouth.

"What are you grinnin' at?" asked the fat man as he grabbed the woman and shoved her up against the wall.

"Those guys," Jake said, a chuckle thickening his words, "back in town…they're coming after me."

"Too bad Ivers is gonna kill you, then," the fat man said, pressing his rotund belly against the woman's back as he tied her hands.

Jake knew the only reason she didn't fight back harder was because her son was still out there, unprotected. She would die to see him safe; it was etched on her tense face.

"Don't matter," Jake said, allowing his eyes to fall closed. "As long as they take every one of you bastards out to get to me."

www

The last time he'd ridden behind Dean, his brother had passed out in his arms.

This time, he clutched at Dean's waist in a desperate attempt to stay aboard the horse. Their clothes were still somewhat damp from the rainstorm, but Sam had to admit he felt as close to _good_ as he had since watching Meg fall from the opened window of the warehouse. Even the scattered rest and bland food had done amazing things to strengthen his body, and seeing Dean move around under his own power—albeit a bit slowly—without the lines of pain drawn across his face had returned the hope he'd almost lost.

The sun had licked at the heels of the storm and was now beating down, burning the exposed skin on his brow and neck. Dean's black hat shaded his brother from the same abuse, but Sam hadn't gotten around to finding a hat that fit him. He dug his fingers into the gun belt strapped tightly to Dean's slim hips and gripped the gray mare with the trembling muscles of his inner thighs.

_Never again…never again…never again…._

The four-beat thrum of the horse's hooves seemed to drill the chant into his head. It was his personal vow: _when_ they got home, he was _never_ getting on a horse again.

Dean leaned a bit forward in the saddle. The Bitch took his body's cue and found another gear. Sam gasped and moved his hands from the gun belt to Dean's waist, his fingers digging in and he worked to mirror Dean's posture as they hauled ass through the edge of town to the front of _The Beacon_. Anticipating Dean's motion just before he hauled the mare up to a stop, Sam leaned back and felt his brother's shoulders against his chest as the horse skidded to panting halt.

Sam slid from the mare's back and made his way to the boardwalk just in front of the door as Dean dismounted and flipped the horse's reins around the hitching rail. They followed Zeke inside.

"I'll find Stella," Zeke said. "You two get—"

His voice slammed to a halt as he caught sight of the people grouped in front of the bar, facing him.

Sam and Dean drew up short just before crashing into Zeke's back. Sam blinked, his eyes tracking along the cluster of people. Big Bob was behind the bar, Stella in front. Next to her stood Frost, Sentenza, and Bird. The little girl gripped the hand of her brother, Rory, who stared out at them with too-old eyes. On the other side of Rory were four men Sam didn't know, but had seen in the saloon the previous night.

"Stella?" Zeke asked.

"You're going up against a very bad man, Zeke," Stella said, her voice husky and soft. Sam felt the weight of her words, the unspoken acknowledgement of necessity and deep-seated worry for a friend. "You're not gonna be able to do it alone."

Sam exchanged a look with his brother. _Is this supposed to happen_?

Dean lifted a shoulder and looked back toward the people of Sulfur Springs.

"I…was gonna find you," Zeke tried to explain.

"Rory found us first," Stella explained, nodding toward the boy. "He took a pretty big risk coming here."

Rory's eyes were on Dean. "I thought you'd be dead."

Sam felt his stomach tighten at the thought.

"Almost was," Dean replied. "Thought _you_ weren't gonna leave without your mom."

"Counting on you to go back and get her," Rory countered. "I, uh…heard some stuff."

"What'd you hear, Rory?" Sam asked, his voice soft.

They hadn't moved from the doorway and none of the town's people had moved from their positions at the bar. It was as if they were in a verbal stand-off; the only thing that was going to break it would be a mutual concession for help.

Rory glanced down at Bird.

"Go on," she encouraged. "I told you. They promised."

"Ivers sent us out to round up them horses ya'll let loose," Rory stated. He shifted his feet and Sam saw that the large Colt he'd held on them when they encountered him in the bunkhouse was slipped into his belt, the barrel nearly meeting his knee. "He's planning on taking out the Mission. Killing the priest there."

Zeke tipped his chin up in a nod. "We kinda figured that part."

"Yeah, well," Rory narrowed his eyes. "He's gonna do it tonight."

Zeke looked over his shoulder at Dean and Sam.

"That ain't all," Rory said.

"What else?" Dean pressed, taking a step forward.

"He ain't just gonna kill the priest. I snuck into the house while everyone was busy trying to catch a horse on foot to go after the herd. I was gonna see if I could find my mom. I heard him talking funny," Rory's voice cracked across the last bit.

"You heard Ivers you mean?" Dean clarified.

"Yeah," Rory nodded. "Some stuff I didn't understand and then…then he said something about gutting the priest and that no one would be left alive."

"He's gonna sacrifice Ramirez," Sam muttered.

"And then annihilate the town," Zeke concluded.

"No, he's not," Dean shook his head. He rotated to face Sam. "It doesn't happen, Sam. None of that does."

"But what if we've changed things, Dean?" Sam said, fear plain in his voice. He pitched his volume low so that only his brother and Zeke could hear. "What if it happens now?"

"We don't let it," Zeke replied. He turned his back to the people gathered at the bar and faced the brothers. "We prepare them to fight. We keep our plan with the dam. We get Kate and Jake the hell outta there…," he swallowed, his eyes looking dangerous in their intensity, "and we get you two home."

"What about Ivers?" Sam asked.

Zeke glanced over his shoulder. "Ivers is our problem," he said toward the people standing behind him. He looked back the brothers. "He's _been_ our problem. We let him control us, take our land, kill our friends. And we did nothing."

He turned and walked toward the bar, the eyes of the people of the town on him.

"This is _our_ fight," Zeke said. "I think it's time we finished it."

Sam shook his head and saw Dean roll his lips against his teeth. "This…this isn't just some…some normal _bad guy_, Zeke," Sam said.

"You gotta know," Dean said, his voice strained as he echoed Sam, "that this might not be a fight these guys can win." He lifted his chin to the people behind Zeke.

"That's what they said about half the battles I survived," Zeke replied. He half-turned, his glance bringing the two groups of people together. "And what I learned was that in a real fight, you don't try to win," he looked back at Dean. "You try to make the other guy lose."

Sam watched Dean's eyes take this in, soften, then drop slightly as he agreed with the other man.

"What about them?" Sam motioned toward the people gathered at the bar. "You willing to pit _them_ against Ivers?"

"Seems to me we're pitting ourselves," replied Stella. Sam watched the others nod in agreement. "Ivers killed some good men in this town. Changed a lot more into…monsters," Stella flinched as she forced that word free. "And he did it to keep us afraid. To keep us in line. So you all go off and do what you have to. If Ivers comes this way?" She tilted her head, pulling a small knife from the folds of her skirt. "We aim to misbehave."

Zeke's grin was triumphant as he stared at her.

Rory spoke up. "I'm gonna come with you."

"No!" Dean and Zeke replied at the same time.

Rory frowned.

"You stay here with Bird," Zeke said. "You keep that pistol of yours ready and you prepare to defend this town from Ivers and his men."

"But I thought he was gonna go to the Mission," Rory replied.

Zeke glanced back at the brothers. "I think we might be able to convince him otherwise."

The surreal quality of their surroundings that Sam had felt when he'd first woken up in the back of Zeke's saloon had faded as he'd fought to keep his brother alive. It returned in full force as Zeke ordered everyone into action. As he watched, Rory, Bird, and Frost began to move tables and roll barrels in front of windows, creating an effective barricade.

"This will be our front," Zeke told them. "If Ivers and his men follow us, we want them to follow us to _this place_, understand?"

Dean nodded, moving toward the backside of the bar. If they had been in their own time, Sam knew, they would be heading to the back of the Impala, gathering weapons, gearing up for whatever the fight threw at them. Here, though, he felt out of place, off-balance. He moved to follow Dean, knowing that when push came to shove, his brother would be shoving with weapons in both hands.

"What about Ramirez?" he asked Zeke.

Zeke stopped mid-stride as he approached his store room where Leo's body had once lain. He looked over at Stella, who was busy tearing strips of petticoat and piling them up on the bar.

"You know where your friend Larabee got to?"

"He's not _my_ friend, Sugar," Stella replied, then glanced sideways at Zeke. "But I might know."

"Think you could find him? Ask him to hole up at the Mission with Ramirez until…well, until this is all over?"

Stella turned, resting her hand on a hip and tipped her head sideways as she regarded Zeke. "What makes you think he'll do it for me?"

Dean had been pulling down bottles of whiskey from the shelf behind the bar and handing them to Sam. Both stopped and watched as Zeke approached Stella.

"I suspect there's not many men who'd say no to you," Zeke replied, his voice dropping, turning husky.

"_You_ have," Stella replied softly.

"Once or twice," Zeke conceded, stepping closer to the brothel owner. "When I was foolish enough to think about what I was doing."

At that Sam looked away, turning his back to the couple who were apparently oblivious to the fact that they had an audience. Unfortunately, by turning his back to them, he faced the mirror and it gave him a clear view of the unfolding events. He glanced up at Dean and saw that his brother also had turned his back, his chin down, his eyes up on the mirror.

"You aren't thinking now?" Stella asked, her face impassive, her stance unchanged.

Zeke shook his head. "Thinking just left me lonely," he said softly, his face tipping closer to hers.

Sam jabbed Dean in the side with two fingers as he saw his brother's lascivious grin. Dean met his eyes in the mirror and mouthed _what?_ Shaking his head, Sam motioned for the bottle of whiskey Dean still held by the neck.

"Uh, we're gonna…y'know…go…," Sam mumbled without looking back at Zeke and Stella. He pushed Dean ahead of him toward the store room.

"Dude, they are totally—" Dean started as he strained to see over his shoulder while Sam continued to propel him forward.

"Eyes front!" Sam ordered and used Dean's shoulder to push them through the door.

Chuckling, Dean set the bottles of whiskey he'd been holding on the makeshift table where Leo's body had rested. Sam put his two bottles next to them. Dean pulled out the Colt Navy revolver from his hip holster, spun the chamber and set it down next to the whiskey bottles.

"Five shots left with this one," he said, sobering in a beat. "This gun takes lead balls and combustible paper cartridges. Gonna have to reload on the fly; not like I can fill a belt with bullets."

Sam rolled his lip against his teeth. "I have the Winchester," he said.

"Ammo?"

Sam shrugged. "I'd have to ask Zeke."

"You see any shotguns around?"

Sam shook his head. "We'd have a helluva time making rock salt rounds from a salt lick."

Dean nodded. "We need more weapons," he said softly, running his hand over his mouth. "A few Molotov cocktails and two guns against all those bad guys?"

"We'll have the water from the dam…the element of surprise…." Sam's words sounded weak even in his head.

_How the hell are we gonna do this_?

They stood for a moment, listening to the waterfall of voices and moving furniture from the outer room, staring in silence at their arsenal. Dean sighed and leaned both hands on the table, hanging his head low. Looking at him, Sam thought about Ramirez's warning that his brother would be weak, that strength would return, but it would return slowly.

It took him a moment to realize Dean had been talking to him.

"Sam. Earth to Sam. Sam Winchesters wears women's underwear."

"Only when I borrow it from you," Sam retorted, drawing his focus back to the present.

"So that's where it went," Dean chuckled. He'd straightened away from the table and was holding a hand loosely on his side, fingers moving casually along his ribs.

Sam sighed, glancing sideways at Dean. "You think it's weird that none of these guys really sound like they're from Texas?"

Dean huffed a small laugh, tilting his head. "Okay, left field."

"Seriously—I would've expected…I don't know, long drawls and…y'know, cowboy talk."

"Well, Bird and Rory kinda sound like that."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Y'know, Texas _is_ barely a state, man," Dean conceded. "Most everyone here is from someplace else."

Sam bounced his elbow off of Dean's arm. "Look at you, Mr. History."

"Hey, I read."

_I'm more than just a blunt instrument, Sam_.

Sam didn't often give his brother credit for surviving the life they'd led. He didn't really know how to say, _thanks for putting yourself between me and the bad guys_. Or even _thanks for being my big brother_. But he needed to learn how to do that.

He needed to learn how to say _thank you_ and make Dean believe it. They felt…thin to him. As if they were stretching hope over too great a space. He had an irrational urge to reach out and grab Dean's arm, grip it tightly and not let go.

"What's the first thing you're gonna do when we get back?" Sam asked.

"Get behind the wheel of the Impala," Dean answered immediately. "Turn her on, feel her hum, crank up the music, roll down the windows, and haul ass."

Sam couldn't hide his grin. "To where?"

"Anywhere," Dean replied. "Screw this one-horse-power shit. I miss my baby."

"Would I lose my status as your geeky brother if I said I missed her, too?"

Dean half-turned and clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder, the side of his mouth pulled back in a genuine grin. "Your rep is safe, man."

Sam was grateful when Dean left his hand for a moment. "Can we do this?" he asked softly.

Dean squeezed his fingers once, then dropped his arm to his side. "We have to."

Taking a breath Sam nodded. "Dad's never gonna believe this," he muttered.

"I've been thinking," Dean started. "This…weapon that Jake's after. If Ramirez is right…if it's here 'cause of Ivers…and if it's the reason Ivers didn't win…."

"You're thinking we bring it back with us," Sam said, his words feeling flat against his tongue.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "I'm not convinced there is such a weapon, but…well, Dad said he had a lead on a way to _kill a demon_…and Jake picked this time…this town…."

"I'm following you," Sam nodded. "But, Dean…things happen for a reason."

Dean snorted and turned away, pulling open drawers situated beneath the shelves of liquor and rifling through them.

"No, listen for a second," Sam crossed the room until he faced Dean's profile. "This…weapon had to've…disappeared or something…for who knows how long. Long enough that it turned into a rumor that Dad is chasing."

"We're talking about something that can _kill_ a _demon_, Sam," Dean snapped, pulling out a bag of small lead balls and tossing it onto the table. He moved to the next drawer. "Assuming we can make it home…just…think about the good we could do back there with something like that!"

"Now you sound like Jake," Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes, turning away. "Maybe Jake had a point."

"What?" Sam yipped. "He…he _killed_ for this, Dean. He…he _ruined lives_ to get back here for this weapon."

"I know, man, I just…," Dean pressed his lips flat, tossing something back in a drawer, his eyes down. "Zeke said it himself. These guys, in this town…they just let evil run 'em over. They didn't do a thing to stop it."

"They're scared."

"So the hell what?" Dean turned to face his brother. "I've been scared my whole life. Everything we've ever done is to save people like them," he pointed over Sam's shoulder at the door closed between the store room and the saloon, "from things like Ivers."

Sam stared at his brother for a moment. Watching Dean fight against the inevitable, watching him struggle, and hating himself for letting it happen.

"Y'know, whether we're in…1870 Texas, or 2005 Chicago…it's all the same, isn't it?" Dean said, narrowing his eyes a bit. "It's still us against them and there's this whole world of people who don't really give a shit."

"You saying you want it to be different? You want them to know?" Sam felt his brows pull close.

"I'm saying…I want people to be accountable. I'm saying we pay a price for the choices they make. I want…I want to know it _matters_, dammit. All of it. Because if…if all we've done is for nothing…and people just go on living their lives like evil never walked here…," he shook his head, looking down, the fire dying out of his voice.

"Dean…."

Dean looked up, a strange light in his eyes. "Answer me this. If you had the chance to kill the thing that killed Jess, would you do it?"

"Yes," Sam answered immediately, his gut hollowing out at the thought. "You know I would."

Dean bounced his eyebrows up, one last spark of hope.

"But," Sam said, stepping forward, one hand out imploringly, "I wouldn't change history to stop it from happening."

"You wouldn't?" Dean's face smoothed with surprise.

Sam shook his head. "Everything happens for a reason," he repeated, his lips quivering around the words.

Dean looked down. "Guess that's where we're different, Sammy."

"You'd risk everything? Risk the…the _future_ to change one thing that _you_ think went wrong?"

Lifting his eyes, truth shining in them bright enough to skip against Sam's heart, Dean said, "If it meant I could save someone I love…yeah. Yeah, I'd risk it."

Sam shoved a hand through his hair, real fear gripping him. "Dean, this weapon…it isn't the way…the time…I mean…what if we get back and it isn't our world anymore? What if by taking this weapon out of this time changes the course of history so much nothing we knew is there anymore?"

Dean looked down, his shoulder sagging as the weight of Sam's truth finally hammered him into submission.

"We can't risk…_everything_ for that…we just can't, Dean."

"Yeah, I get it, okay?" Dean snapped. He met Sam's eyes, and his face softened. "I understand what you're saying, Sam."

Sam nodded, swallowing hard. He felt something pang in his heart when Dean smiled at him. It was one of the saddest things he'd ever seen.

"Woulda been nice, though, to have something…y'know…to bring home to Dad besides… possible leads."

_What about us, huh? Isn't bringing _us_ home to Dad enough, Dean?_

"We gotta get back first," Sam reminded him, his heart sinking at what they would have to do to make that happen.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Yeah…," he repeated, softer, his eyes on the floor.

He didn't intentionally assume the task would fall to Dean, but the next question was out before Sam could stop himself. "Do you know how you're going to do it?"

Dean jerked his head up, stricken surprise on his face. Sam wanted to pull his words back, erase them from Dean's mind.

"I don't know," Dean replied honestly. "He's one of Dad's friends, y'know? I just…," his eyes clouded, hiding his heart from Sam. "We gotta get home."

Sam swallowed. "We will, Dean. We'll see Dad again."

Dean's mouth tipped up in a small, appreciative smile. "Hey, think he knows about that Devil's Trap stuff Ramirez was talking about?"

"It's in the journal," Sam pointed out. "He knows something."

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "He knows something…too bad he didn't get a chance to tell us much in Chicago."

Sam shook his head. "Whatever," he grumbled. "Not like the man doesn't have access to a phone. He's had plenty of time to tell us stuff. He just hasn't done it."

Before Dean could respond, the door behind Sam opened. He turned to see Zeke sticking his head in.

"Wondered where you boys got off to," Zeke said.

"Interesting choice of words," Dean smirked.

"Huh?"

"Forget it," Sam covered for him. "Stella know where Larabee is?"

Zeke lifted his chin. "She does. She'll send him up toward the Mission. You ready?"

"Zeke," Sam said. "We don't have enough weapons for this."

Zeke's answering grin was slightly manic.

The new horse was bigger than Little Joe, and about as calm as Hooker, but it was uglier than sin. Sam felt his legs strain at the hip with as wide as he had to spread them to settle his feet in the stirrups. The tan, soft-brimmed hat Zeke had found for him shielded his now-pink forehead and nose from the sun, and he had to admit, he actually felt the part for the first time since they arrived.

"Okay," Zeke was saying. "You follow my lead until we get to the house."

"Yessir," Sam replied automatically, responding to the tone, not the speaker. Zeke rolled with it.

"Sam, you're our rifle man," Zeke said, stating the obvious.

Sam had the reloaded Winchester in the scabbard of his saddle, a Henry rifle strapped just behind his right leg, and another Winchester borrowed from Frost across the front of his saddle. In his saddle bags were two of the whiskey Molotov cocktails. Two more were in Dean's saddle bags, though with the way the Bitch was fidgeting beneath him, Sam wasn't sure those bottles would survive the journey to Ivers' house.

"Easy," Dean said softly, putting the flat of his hand on the horse's shoulder. He looked up, glancing quickly over at Sam. "It's gonna be okay. You're gonna do just fine."

Sam opened his mouth to reply until he realized his brother was speaking to the horse. He watched, amazed, as the animal quieted, her ears twitching back toward Dean's voice.

"You'll just slip into that bastard's lair like a…a ghost. Quiet as death and just as dangerous." Dean patted the supple, gray shoulder, then moved his fingers beneath the tangled black mane.

"That's what you should call her," Sam suggested. "Ghost."

Dean grinned, then straightened. "Would be kinda ironic, huh?"

The Colt Dean had all-but inherited from Tom O'Maera was fully loaded and resting in its holster. Big Bob and another man had donated two other revolvers and Dean had tucked them in the front and back of his waistband. When he patted the mare one last time, the afternoon sun glinted off of the firepower that surrounded him.

"Ghost," Dean said softly. "Suits you."

Sentenza arrived silently astride a small, black Mustang, a donkey laden with two boxes of dynamite followed him, a rope fixed to its halter and tied to Sentenza's saddle. Sam smiled hesitantly at the Mexican; he wasn't sure if the answering expression was a smile or a grimace, but he saw the man's face shift and nodded back before averting his eyes.

"Dean," came a small voice from the recesses of the Livery.

Sam twisted slightly in his saddle to look over his shoulder as Bird emerged, her gray eyes large and red-rimmed, her short dark hair curling up around her face in sweaty ringlets. On an unspoken cue, Sam and Zeke pulled their mounts to the side. Dean leaned down, a creak of leather accompanying his motion.

"Hey there," he greeted her softly.

Bird licked her lips and in a flash looked so achingly young that Sam felt tears burn the backs of his eyes. It was always the young that were burned deepest by the touch of evil. This man they'd declared to be _not their problem_ had killed her father, stolen her mother and her brother, and forced her to live in fear. He knew better than anyone how deeply something like that could burn into a soul.

He knew how impossible it was to fully return from a wound like that.

"I know you're not…not an angel," Bird whispered, her voice almost adult in its husky seriousness and combating the naked need to believe in something that shone from her large eyes like a beacon. "I know that you're…you're just a person. My…Papa, he was just a person, too."

"Bird," Dean started. "I'm not gonna let Ivers do to me what…what he did to your dad."

Bird stepped forward, gripping Dean's calf. "I don't want you to die," she said softly. "But…more than I want that…I want my Mama back."

Sam blinked, pulling back slightly as Bird voiced his own secret wish buried deep within him and forgotten over the years. Dean, however, didn't move. His eyes stayed locked with Bird's, his body rigid as he leaned toward her.

"I know you do," Dean replied. "I'm gonna bring your Mom back to you, Bird."

"He won't let her go," she shook her head. "Her or Rory. He'll always have them. Here." She pointed to her head. "He'll hurt them forever."

"Aw, dammit, kid…," Dean breathed.

"But he can't hurt them…if he's dead," Bird finished.

_Promise me_…. Sam remembered her voice the last time they'd ridden away from her. _Promise me_….

"I hear you, Hannah," Dean said, gripping the girl's attention with the use of that name. "I hear you."

Taking another moment to pin Dean with her soulful eyes, Bird nodded, then glanced at the other two men. Zeke tipped a finger to the brim of his hat; Sam offered her a small smile. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Bird simply blinked at them, then turned and walked with stiff-backed resilience into the Livery.

"Hey, Sam?"

Dean's voice was rough, edges of sound turning to ash against Sam's ears.

"Yeah?" Sam replied, hearing the same pain echoed there.

"I wanna take this son of a bitch down."

Sam nodded, finding it hard to swallow around the lump lodged in his throat.

_It knows I'm gonna kill it. Not just exorcise it or send it back to hell—actually kill it. _

His father's declaration echoing in his memory, Sam looked at Zeke, noting edge that cut across the man's eyes. He looked over his shoulder at _The Beacon_ and the small group of resistant town's people he could see clustered together through the window.

He turned finally and met his brother's bright eyes. "Me too."

Dean gathered the mare's reins in his hand and pulled the horse around. "Let's remind this demon what Hell is like."

* * *

**a/n: **Storm's coming. Next chapter is gonna be hell…so to speak.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1.

**a/n**: So this is it…the show-down. Here goes nothin'... *bites lip*

* * *

_"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving."_

_~ Ulysses S. Grant_

www

_Sulfur Springs, Texas 1870_

"I can see the ranch from here," Dean called down from his perch atop the wooden dam. "I mean…it's like…a spec, but I can see it."

Dean looked over his shoulder at the large reservoir of water pooled into a sizable lake on what had once been Tom O'Maera's property. When the solidly-constructed dam gave way, the wall of water was going to be…impressive.

"Told you it wouldn't take long for the water to get there," Zeke replied from below him.

Zeke and Sentenza were setting the sticks of dynamite, then weaving the fuses together so that Sentenza could light them from a protected location. On the East side of the creek bed, tied down behind a cluster of rocks, rested Sentenza's mount and the donkey that had carried the boxes of dynamite. Sam stood off to the West of the creek, holding their horses, and looking increasingly uncomfortable. Dean climbed down from the dam and approached his brother.

"Relax, Sam," he grinned. "This is gonna work."

"You're insane," Sam replied. "_This_ is insane. And I should get a medal for going along with this."

"How 'bout I make you a T-shirt instead?" Dean said, taking the Ghost's reins from Sam and smiling at him. "_I Survived the Dam Run with Dean Winchester And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt._ Huh? Huh?" He bounced his elbow against Sam's arm teasingly.

Sam reached out and grabbed his sleeve. "This isn't a movie, Dean," he said through clenched teeth. "There's not gonna be music playing as we ride these damn things in and throw our make-shift bombs and rescue the lady and go home. People could die. A lot of people."

"Well, if we do it right, it won't be us," Dean replied, pulling free of Sam's grip and ignoring the block of ice Sam's words shoved into his gut.

"Dean!" Sam barked, reaching out and grabbing the front of his brother's shirt. "I'm _serious_. This isn't a joke—"

"_I know that_, Sam!" Dean turned, leaning into Sam's hand and taking a step closer to his brother, thrusting the weight of his words into his eyes and making sure his brother saw it all. "I know."

Sam closed his mouth, blinking, surprise evident on his face as he took in the shift from humor to ferocity in Dean's stance.

"Last time we were at this place? I was barely hanging on," Dean reminded him. "In fact, I was pretty sure that if you made it home, you'd be bringing my body back with you."

Sam swallowed. "Then why do you act like it doesn't hit you?" he asked. "I can see that you're still weak, man. I see your hands shaking. I see how…how pale you are. I see _you_."

"Well then, _look closer_, Sam," Dean ordered in a low, dangerous voice. "You said you knew me. Before all of this started. You remember that?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I remember."

"If that's true? Then you know there's _nothing_ more important to me than saving Bird's mom, getting Jake, getting us the hell out of here, and keeping as many people alive as we can in the process."

Sam slowly released his grip on Dean's shirt-front, but didn't step away. They were once again toe-to-toe, the scent of the horse's nervous sweat surrounding them, the daylight beginning to turn flat and tired as the afternoon burned away.

"Then why…why don't you…," Sam asked, helpless to find the last of the question.

"Act like it?" Dean replied.

Sam nodded.

"'Cause I can't ever let the fact that we might lose stop me from doing what I know we have to," Dean replied, taking a step back. He shrugged. "So, I joke around. Helluva lot easier."

Sam sighed. "No wonder I can't ever figure you out," he muttered.

"You two done kissing and making up?" Zeke called from several yards away.

Dean waved at him. "We're good."

"Good, 'cause this is all set," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I sent Sentenza that way," he pointed to the East side of the creek bed, "with enough fuse he won't get squished or drowned."

"You sure you got enough dynamite?" Dean asked.

"Kid, I used enough sticks that I could blow _The Beacon_ all the way to Washington," Zeke replied, then looked concerned. "You do know where Washington is…right?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Washington?" he asked, feigning puzzlement.

Zeke paled.

"Don't listen to him, Zeke," Sam said, swooping in for the rescue. "We know where Washington is."

Zeke narrowed his eyes good-naturedly and pointed an accusatory finger at Dean. "You're gonna play the wrong card one of these days, y'know."

Dean nodded with smiling concession. "Probably."

Clapping his hands together and startling the drowsy horses, Zeke took a breath. "You boys ready for this?"

Dean looked at his brother, saw the tension tightening his boyish features. "You still scared, Sammy?"

Sam looked back at him and Dean flipped a mental coin: _truth or bravado_?

"Hell yeah, I'm scared," Sam replied. "Aren't you?"

Dean smiled softly, thankful for the quiet permission for honesty Sam's admission gave him. "Yeah, I'm scared."

"If you aren't scared, you aren't living," Zeke said, swinging his leg across Hooker's back and reaching down to Sam for the reins. "That's my motto. Or it might be if I start having a motto."

Sam gave the saloon owner a half grin and turned to flip the reins over the neck of his big horse.

"Hey, Sam," Dean called, pulling his brother's attention. "Remember what Dad says."

"Shoot first, ask questions later?"

"No," Dean shook his head. "The other thing."

"Watch out for your brother?" Sam smiled.

Dean chuckled softly, appreciating the humor and the subtle reminder that Sam knew he had his back. "Fear keeps you sharp. Gives you an edge. Use that edge to cut 'em down."

"Oh, right. That," Sam said, then shoved his foot into the stirrup and sat stiffly in the saddle.

Dean climbed aboard the Ghost, wincing slightly as he settled himself in the unforgiving seat and looked toward where Sentenza sat waiting.

"All right, boys, listen up," Zeke said, turning Hooker in a circle. "We start riding. When we hit that tree there, Sentenza lights the fuse. We have about three minutes until the dam blows and then a helluva lotta water is heading our way. You run them horses. Run 'em fast."

Dean nodded, his jaw tense, and moved the Ghost over closer to Sam's mount.

"When we get there," Dean said picking up the cadence of the plan, "Sam and I'll head around the back of the house and throw the whiskey bombs."

"And Zeke turns any horses they've rounded up loose," Sam chimed in. "Then he breaks in through the front, gets Kate out of the house."

Zeke nodded. "We have to assume that Jake's gonna be with the hands rounding up the horses and preparing for the assault on the town. So, you two set the back of the house on fire and smoke everyone out, then circle around and find him."

"And then we head back to town," Dean wrapped up, "using the loose horses as a shield and drawing Ivers with us."

For a beat they sat on their horses, staring at each other, the quiet hum of cicadas offering a back drop to their hammering hearts.

"This is crazy," Zeke spoke first.

"Freakin' insane," Dean nodded.

"No way this is gonna work," Sam agreed.

"Well, that about covers it," Zeke said, gathering his reins.

"Let's do this thing," Dean turned the mare and held her steady alongside Sam.

"YA!" Zeke kicked Hooker in the flanks and the bay horse launched into a flat-out run.

Dean followed suit on the Ghost checking to make sure Sam was keeping up. He felt his body respond to the stretched-out gait of the horse, leaning forward and moving his arms with the up and down motion of her neck. She didn't require much encouragement; the horse loved to run. He just had to keep his feet in the stirrups. Keeping his ass in the seat was a bonus, but didn't seem to be crucial to staying on.

He saw the tree approach and pass them in a blur and within minutes he felt the world rock. Ducking his shoulder and looking back he saw that Sam was right at his heels, and close behind Sam was a wall of churning, rolling water that pounded down the river bed, overflowing the banks, slipping across the rocks and slamming against the small trees that flanked the edges.

"Go, go," he breathlessly encouraged the Ghost.

"Move!" Zeke yelled from in front of him, somehow throwing his old warhorse into fifth gear and powering away from the brothers.

"Go, Sam!" Dean yelled over his shoulder, hesitant to kick the Ghost and leave Sam behind.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" Sam screamed back at him. "What else am I supposed to do?"

"Go _faster_!"

Dean heard the rush of the water behind them, a roaring scream ripping over the thirsty land. He leaned so far forward the barrel of the gun tucked into the front of his belt dug into his thigh and the saddle horn rhythmically slapped against his belly. His muscles began to shake and he instinctively tangled his hands in Ghost's dread-lock-infused mane.

"YA!" He heard behind him and dared another glance back, watching in amazement as he saw Sam lean low and use the ends of his reins as a riding crop, smacking the flank of the big horse and speeding past Dean.

"Atta boy!" Dean hollered after him, relaxing into the Ghost's run and following his brother and Zeke down the length of the rapidly filling river, the push of water thundering against the air behind him.

Before he was ready for it, they reached the bunkhouse. The shouts of panic and surprise from the men working Ivers' ranch were audible over the sound of the rushing water. Following Zeke and Sam around the far corner of the bunkhouse, Dean cleared the building two strides before the water slammed into it, rushing through the windows, filling the empty spaces, and shifting the wooden building off of its questionable foundation.

The distraction was working. Men were scrambling, running, calling out to each other. Several dozen horses were circling and squealing nervously in the corral as overflow from the rush of water spread beneath their hooves. The earth was soon a mess of red mud. Dean followed Sam around the side of the huge house, catching sight of Zeke as he swept past the corral gate and lifted the latch, once again freeing the horses the men had worked so hard to round up.

Dean pulled Ghost up short, the horse panting as hard as he was, her sides heaving, white flecks of sweaty foam built up along her neck and at the corners of her mouth. She worked the bit nervously, prancing and ready to keep moving.

"Whiskey," Dean gasped, digging into his own saddle bag.

Sam reached down, and Dean saw his hands were shaking.

"You okay?"

"That was a freakin' rush, man," Sam panted, grabbing a bottle of whiskey with a corked piece of Stella's petticoat tucked into the top. "Oh, shit! Shit!"

"What?" Dean looked up and around quickly.

"We left the matches with Sentenza!"

Dean grinned, sweat rolling down the side of his face and along his jaw line. Before Sam could say a word, he pulled his Zippo from his pocket.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Brought it with me," Dean replied. "Aside from my boots…it was the only thing that survived the trip."

"Son of a bitch," Sam breathed, his dimples showing.

"That's what I said," Dean replied, flicking the lighter once, twice, three times and catching the end of the scrap of material with the flame.

Tossing the lighter to Sam, he moved the horse toward the back then stood a bit in his stirrups and threw the bottle against the back of the house. It broke with a satisfying burst of flame. In a moment Sam's joined it on the opposite end of the house and they shared a grin as the flames licked the outside of the large, wooden structure, smoke curling in through the windows.

They circled around to the side of the house, hearing the curses and shouts of men in the destroyed yard spread out before them. The side porch of the house was just at their left, a shelter for firewood and an outhouse situated off to their right. Dean looked around for some cover; they were exposed here, caught in an alley with only two exits, and both could easily be cut off. Dean pulled the Colt from its holster and saw that Sam gripped the Winchester. Amazingly, no one had come after them, yet; it appeared that the melee with the water and horses was scattering the men like ants.

"Where's Zeke?" Sam panted.

"Should be in the house," Dean reminded him. "We gotta find Jake. Let's—"

The volley of gunfire seemed to come out of nowhere.

It echoed off the side of the house and spooked the Ghost into bucking. Dean wasn't firmly seated and had no experience staying on a bucking horse. He tumbled from the saddle, landing hard on his shoulder and rolling to his knees in a coughing, gasping execution of awkward motion.

With a shaking hand, wincing from the impact with the ground, he pointed the Colt toward the opening of the alley, seeing only men coming toward them, and fired back, drawing the attention of the men shouting at each other and milling in the yard. Ducking instinctively, he caught a glimpse of three riders heading down from the top of the ridge, firing toward Ivers' men.

"Sam! Plan B! We gotta—" He turned, expecting to see Sam firmly seated on the back of the big black horse.

Instead, the horse was dancing between the shed and the outhouse, and Sam was on the ground, face pale, eyes blinking dimly at the sky, a deep red stain growing across the top of his left thigh.

"_SAM!"_

Dean's cry echoed more loudly than the gunshots and he was up and running for his brother before he registered that more bullets were heading their way.

www

He'd been shot.

It took him a moment to register this fact. It had never happened before; he hadn't expected it to feel quite this way.

For a half-second, he thought Dean had hit him, knocked him from his horse. It had literally felt like a slap on his leg—hard, like being hit by a two-by-four—and then he was on the ground, blinking at the sky.

"_SAM!"_

For a brief, suspended moment there was nothing but the sound of his name caught in his brother's anguished voice.

And then the pain rolled over him. A spike of bright agony as if someone had shoved a white-hot needle the size of his arm into his leg.

_Oh, shit…shit…Dean, I've been shot…Dean…._

"I gotcha…I gotcha, Sam," Dean was saying, gasping, his voice trembling like he couldn't get enough air.

"M-my leg…," Sam tried before the nausea hit him. He instinctively sucked in a lungful of air through his nose.

"I know, I know," Dean said, grabbing him and pulling him up against his chest. Two things always struck Sam about his brother when Sam was hurt: Dean seemed to become unnaturally strong, and he repeated everything. "I've gotcha, kiddo…lemme look, lemme see it."

"Bastard shot me," Sam muttered, looking down at his leg. A red stain was growing across his thigh. His vision blurred and narrowed until for a moment all he saw was smears of light and all he heard was Dean's voice.

"Okay…okay, yeah, it's not bad. Not bad at all."

Dean maneuvered behind Sam until he was crouched at his back. He hadn't touched Sam's leg, or given it more than a passing glance as far as Sam could tell. He felt Dean tip sideways and in moments he saw the white bandages that had been wrapped around Dean's ribs, protecting his still-healing cuts, whipped out and Dean's hands descending toward the red mark on his leg.

"It's not bad, Sammy," Dean repeated just before he turned Sam's world white as he pulled the bandage tight in a make-shift tourniquet.

"Jeeeeeeesus," Sam cried out in a breathy whimper.

"I'm sorry! Sorry, kiddo."

"That…hurts."

Dean tucked his hands under Sam's shoulders. "Here, lemme have your arm, Sam. There you go, okay. Gonna lift you."

"Lost m'horse," Sam said.

He felt dizzy, drunk, sick. As Dean lifted him up, the world swayed around him and he groaned.

"N-Not getting on a horse," Dean grunted, tucked up under him, taking the weight off his bad leg.

They shifted, and Sam felt Dean reach for something, heard him curse, and then they were once again balanced. He tried to focus on what Dean was doing but it was all he could do to keep from rolling into the beckoning darkness and way from the lurch of pain that was climbing his leg with hot fingers.

Sam jerked, surprised, when Dean suddenly fired two shots toward the confusing mess of people that seemed to be four million miles away. He blinked dully when he saw two people fall.

_Better not be Jake…or we're screwed_, he thought dimly.

"Let's getcha inside," Dean gasped, tugging on Sam. "Need you to work with me here, okay?"

Dean fired two more shots and Sam heard an answering cry. Someone else was shot. Someone else was feeling the white-hot fire burning in them. Someone else was feeling the twisted spin of the world. And his brother had made it happen.

_Good…Kill 'em all, Dean…don't let 'em win…._

"Sammy! Sam! Hey! Hey! Don't you pass out on me."

"'Kay," Sam replied, blinking his eyes wide. "Why 'er we goin' inside? Zeke's 'posed to go inside."

"Plan B, kiddo," Dean said, forcing Sam to move. "We gotta find Zeke. Get you some help. I need you to move, Sam. Move with me, okay? Sam!"

"Move. Gotcha." Sam nodded, working to obey.

The disorienting dizziness was starting to pass and in its place grew a clear-headed, pain-filled panic. He started to see everything with sharp-edged lucidity, feeling his heart pound with the adrenalin rush from before and the realization that if he didn't help Dean now, it was _Dean_ who would be taking a body back to 2005, not him.

He moved his good leg forward, helping Dean limp toward the porch and awkwardly climb the steps to the main door. Dean fired his weapon again, then clicked on an empty chamber. Tossing the now-useless gun away with a curse, he reached into the front of his belt and pulled out one of the spares.

"The rifles are on my horse," Sam said, thankful that he no longer sounded three-sheets to the wind; however, the cold fire in his leg was starting to heat up and the roll of pain made it hard to catch his breath.

"We'll get 'em later," Dean grunted.

Sam tried to pull some of his weight away as Dean struggled through the doorway, but found he needed his brother's stocky support if he was going to avoid face-planting on the expensive-looking rug spread across the floor in the room they stumbled into. Keeping up with Dean was an exercise in focused determination.

His whole being narrowed to the rhythm of _step, lean, drag, step, lean, drag_.

"Zeke!" Dean yelled. "ZEKE, goddammit," the curse was executed on an exhale, "where the _HELL_ are you?"

Sam looked blearily around. The front half of the house was empty; all of the noise, confusion and gunfire was outside. The front door was shut; he wondered if Zeke had even made it inside.

"Too many guns," Sam said suddenly, realization simmering to the front as Dean continued to move them through the house.

"Huh?"

"Outside," Sam said. "There's too many guns. Who're they shooting at?"

Dean stopped and Sam saw his sweaty, dirt-streaked profile whip to the side as he looked out through one of the tall, curtained windows. "That's a good point, Sam," Dean complimented him. "We've got company."

"Hope they're on our side," Sam muttered.

"Help! Up here! Help!" A woman's voice cried out from a room at the top of a narrow staircase tucked into the back corner of the front room.

"Hello!" Dean called back.

"Help us!"

Smoke from their whiskey-triggered fire was beginning to roll into the front room. Sam couldn't feel or hear the flames just yet, but he knew they didn't have much time before the _smoke them out_ part of the plan affected them. Dean turned them toward the stairs.

"Hang on a sec, little brother," he said breathlessly.

In a flash, Sam realized that Dean was about to set him down to go investigate the cry for help. He reflexively gripped Dean's shoulder, pulling his brother close to him.

"No."

"Sam, c'mon, just—"

"Don't leave me here," Sam pleaded.

He hadn't meant for it to come out so pathetic. He'd meant to calmly and clearly explain that it made more sense for them to stick together; that he couldn't fight off anyone who came through the door. But when he opened his mouth, the voice of a twelve-year-old emerged.

He felt Dean's shoulders square up and he was adjusted against his brother's body. "We gotta get up these stairs."

"'Kay," Sam nodded, saving his breath for the journey.

It felt like each step took them forty years, but before Sam realized it, they had breached the top and Dean was calling out to the woman.

"Tell me where you are!" he demanded. His voice sounded crusty, as if he'd put it away a long time ago and was just getting it out now because he had nothing else to use.

"Here! We're in here!"

Sam resumed the rhythm of _step, lean, drag, step, lean, drag_, working with Dean to get to the door. He was surprised when Dean turned the knob with the hand holding the back-up weapon and the door opened. Boxed-up heat and the smell of burned flesh and sweat rolled out of the room in a sickening wave and Sam tucked his mouth against his shoulder in retaliation from the nauseating lurch of his stomach.

Dean coughed once. "What the fu—"

"Oh, thank God," the woman's relieved voice interrupted Dean's curse. "Please, please, untie us! Before he comes back!"

Dean hauled them both through the door and across the room, leaning down and easing Sam away from him and to the floor in a protected corner facing the door. Next to Sam was a small fireplace with glowing coals and what looked like a couple of branding irons buried in it. Without looking back at the woman, Dean met Sam's eyes. It was then Sam realized his brother had been carrying one of the extra whiskey bombs with him this whole time.

He set the bottle next to Sam, then pulled the third Colt from his waistband and handed it over, his eyes flat-out serious as he stared directly into Sam's.

"Keep that pointed at the door," he said. "You shoot anything that's not Zeke."

Sam nodded, pushing the moral objections and fear of killing a human to the back of his brain. Dean's sole focus in this fight was their survival; Sam was determined to back him up.

Dean shifted away and Sam caught sight of the other occupants in the room.

"Oh, God," he breathed, fear and horror lacing his words. "Jake."

Jake Brand was tied to a chair in the opposite corner, his hands behind him, his shirt ripped open, his chest displaying the angry welt of a pentagram that had been burned into the flesh. His face was craggy with pain and exhaustion, white stubble covered his cheeks and jaw line, his graying hair was greasy and unkempt and spun about his head in a wild swirl. His eyes were fever-bright. And they were pinned on Dean.

Behind him, a woman was hogtied on the ground, her skirts rucked up to her knees, her black hair spilling around her shoulders and sticking to her face in sweaty ringlets. Her face was pale with fear, but her gray eyes were intense as they bounced between Sam and Dean.

"Kate?" Dean asked, moving toward her first. "Kate O'Maera?"

"Yes," she breathed, sagging into the floor. "Yes, that's me. Please, untie me."

Sam watched Dean reach into his boot for his throwing knife and come up empty. He winced: he'd used that to cut away Dean's wraps the day prior and hadn't replaced it in the confusion. Not slowing, Dean reached up to the table on the wall next to the door and slapped the unlit hurricane lamp sitting there to the floor, shattering the glass and spilling the fuel held in the basin. He picked up a sizable shard and started cutting through the rope that kept Kate's feet attached to her hands.

The moment she was in a better position, Dean went to work on her hands.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"We're, uh…friends," Dean said, his jaw tightening as he worked to cut the ropes and not Kate's skin. "We know your daughter."

"You've seen Hannah?" Kate's voice was liquid with relief. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Dean reassured her. "Your boy, too. He's back in town. At the saloon."

"Oh, thank God," Kate breathed and Sam heard her breath hitch as she fought back tears. "I thought for sure he killed Rory to get that gun."

"Gun?" Jake suddenly rasped.

Sam tore his eyes between the hunter and the mother.

With a grunt of effort, Dean finally got the ropes at her wrists free and moved to her ankles. Kate immediately started to rub feeling back into her hands. Sam could hear the gunfire that had served as so much background music begin to grow louder outside.

"Tom's gun," she said, her eyes moving to Sam and worry tightening the corners of her mouth as she saw his bloody leg. "Last thing he told Rory before Ivers…," she stopped, swallowing, then continued, "was to keep that gun safe. No matter what."

"A Colt?" Jake asked, his voice so thick with pain and madness that Sam felt himself shrinking away from it. "Made special?"

Kate reached down and began to help Dean pull the ropes from her ankles. "Yeah, I think so. I never wanted to know."

"Son of a bitch," Jake growled. "A fuckin' _kid_ had it."

"Shut up, Jake," Dean snapped as he tossed Kate's ropes away and moved to the wounded man's bindings.

Kate scrambled quickly across the floor toward Sam and gently pulled away the tourniquet. Sam hissed as the numbness he'd begun to enjoy gave way once more to fire.

"Slide one of those pieces of glass this way," Kate ordered.

Dean obeyed without question. Sam looked at his brother, saw the tension in his face, the paleness of his skin. He couldn't see his hands. He could always tell all he needed to know about whatever Dean was hiding if he could see Dean's hands.

"Dean?" he called out, seeking some kind of reassurance.

"Hang in there, Sammy," Dean replied. "Lemme just…get these…damn ropes."

"Ivers is a demon," Jake said needlessly.

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean muttered. "You and your freakin' brilliant plan got my brother and me stuck in this hell hole. Think we figured out we were dealing with a demon awhile back."

"It's worse than you know," Jake told him.

"It usually is," Dean sighed, gaining freedom for one of Jake's hands and moving to the other one.

As Kate cut open Sam's pant leg around his wound, Sam looked beyond Dean's unprotected back to the hallway. He couldn't tell if he saw a shadow moving, or if it was smoke from their whiskey bombs finally curling its way to the upper floors of the massive house.

"He's managed to turn half the men on this ranch into monsters," Jake was saying, his voice ragged, his words rambling. "And not our kind of monsters, either. These sonsabitches are doing it for power. I'd rather die…."

"I won't stop you," Dean muttered.

Sam narrowed his eyes, lifting his weapon and pulling back the hammer as the shadow moved again. The shadow stopped and Sam took a breath. Dean brought his head up at the sound and half-turned, but Sam knew he wouldn't be able to draw his last weapon in time.

Sam fired through the door and heard the grunt as his bullet found its mark. A fat man fell through the doorway, unconscious, blood blossoming on his shoulder.

Kate all-but hissed at him.

Dean looked at the fat man in surprise, then over at Sam. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam smiled back weakly, dropping his head against the wall as Kate moved away. Without a word, she grabbed the ropes that had bound her and shoved the fat man over, pulling his hands behind him and with the speed of a modern-day rodeo cowboy had him hog-tied and was returning to Sam.

"Wow," Sam murmured.

"You don't grow up on a ranch without learning a few tricks," Kate commented. "This leg doesn't look so good, honey," she glanced up at Sam.

Sam looked past her to his brother. "Liar."

"Dammit, Sam, I'm a hunter, not a doctor," Dean tried, his half-hearted grin not reaching his worried eyes. "That's why we need Zeke."

Kate looked over her shoulder at Dean. "Zeke McAdams?"

"He's with us," Sam told her. "I think…."

Dean cursed and pulled his hand back, shaking it and flicking blood to the floor. The shard of glass he was working with to cut Jake's ropes was slipping in his grip.

"Hurry up, kid," Jake growled, shaking his hand against his ropes.

Kate shook her head and began to tear up her petticoat, creating a compress and tying it down against Sam's wound. Sam tried to hold still under her ministrations, but the fire had rolled into a bone-deep ache and it was all he could do to keep from whimpering aloud.

"Listen," Dean growled at Jake. "The only reason I'm saving you right now is because we need you to get home, and I can't go home until I know these people are safe from Ivers. You're nothing but a ticket, get me?"

"I hate to break it to you, kid," Jake returned, his lips pulling back in a snarl. "But there is no way home."

"Yes, there is," Sam spoke up. "It's your blood."

Jake frowned, then looked at Dean as if for conformation.

"That's right, chief," Dean said, standing and tossing the blood-slicked shard into the pile of glass and looking down at Jake. "My blood might've brought us here, but you're blood's taking us home."

"What's all this about?" Kate whispered to Sam, leaning close.

"Try not to pay too much attention," Sam implored. "It's all gonna be okay."

"You're sure my children are safe?" she asked.

Sam met her eyes. "They're more than safe. They're amazing," he told her. "You've done a great job with them. They're gonna be real happy to see you."

Kate's eyes filled with tears and she put her face in her hands.

"You weren't even supposed to come back with me," Jake was saying. "It was just supposed to be me."

"Yeah, well," Dean replied, "that's what you get for messing with black magic, you moron. Should've maybe done a little more research, huh?"

"It worked, though!" Jake shouted, lurching toward Dean, then falling back into the chair where he was still bound. "I got back here, didn't I?"

"And your got your friend killed," Dean reminded him. Sam watched Jake's face pale at this. Dean pressed his anger forward. "Yeah! You got him killed and now my brother's been shot and the only way we're getting back is through _your blood_ and don't think I'm not going to use it!"

"Who?" Jake asked tightly, grief slicing through his question. "Who…was it?"

"Leo," Sam informed him. "Max wasn't there, remember? He wasn't in the Mission."

"Leo," Jake almost sobbed. He put his free hand over his face and Dean looked away for a moment. "Dammit, Leo."

"I'd say I'm sorry," Dean said softly, his voice still carrying an edge of anger, "but it's your own fault."

Jake dropped his hand and lifted red-rimmed eyes. "If he hadn't have called John, none of this would've happened!" he shouted. "I would have been there by myself, finished the ritual, and no one else would have been…caught. No one else would have had to die!"

"Except the girl you were planning to kill," Dean reminded him. "And while we're on the subject of insanely stupid ideas, if you had no way home, what the hell were you going to do with this weapon you're after?"

"I had a plan," Jake said, his eyes manic.

"Sure you did," Dean commented, kneeling once more at Jake's ropes and cutting with a new piece of glass. "Bet it was just as brilliant as this one."

"Well, well, the gang's all here," came a snake-slick voice from the doorway.

Sam brought his Colt up and Dean jerked back and away from the door. Ivers stepped into the light, his eyes sliding to onyx as his cold smile took in the room.

"We have the whore, the liar, the hunter, and, oh dear…looks like the brother isn't doing too well."

Dean moved to stand between Sam and Ivers. Kate pressed her back against the edge of the fireplace, her hand fumbling for one of the branding irons.

Ivers _tsked _at her. "Now, don't do that," he said, and flicked his fingers. The branding iron she was reaching for flew free and across the room, the glowing end in the shape of a pentagram smoking against the wooden floor. Kate gasped and flinched back closer to Sam.

"After all our…touching, intimate moments?" Ivers said to Kate. "One might think you weren't…appreciative."

Kate gasped and Sam and Dean looked at her. She began to claw at her throat.

"Hey!" Dean barked. He took a step forward.

Ivers jerked his eyes away from Kate and she sagged against the wall, coughing.

"Well, look who's finally ready to play," Ivers said, tilting his head to the side and stepping closer to Dean.

Sam felt his stomach tighten and he eased the hammer back on his weapon. Ivers spared him a glance and the Colt flew from his grasp across the room. Sam snarled, watching Dean's rigid back as the demon stepped closer to his brother. His leg throbbed at even the thought of trying to get up.

"Y'know…I've heard things about you," he said to Dean, his tone almost conversational.

"Yeah?" Dean replied, his voice controlled, snarky, but Sam heard the undercurrent of _we are so screwed_ rolling just beneath the surface. He wished he could see his brother's face. It was hard to tell Dean's exact level of fear by the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head.

"Seems your family likes to create a bit of a…ruckus in our world," Ivers said. "Gotta say…a few of my brothers are _really_ looking forward to meeting your dad."

"What the hell do _you_ know about my dad?" Dean snapped.

Sam saw Jake tug at his still-bound hand and Ivers flicked his fingers in that direction. Jake's chair slid across the room, slamming against the wall. Kate covered her mouth, trying to hold back a scream. Sam thought furiously, trying to figure out a way to distract Ivers long enough he could at least help Dean get Kate out.

It was then he realized he couldn't move.

Sam's eyes flew to Ivers and he saw that the demon's hand was stretched toward him and Kate. He remembered this feeling well. He remembered being pinned to the wall in their childhood home, unable to move, barely able to breathe, as his mother's spirit approached, her eyes large and luminous, her face achingly sad.

He remembered the fire in her voice, the determined set of her shoulders as she turned from him and demanded that the spirit holding him against the wall release him and leave. He saw that same determination in his brother's stance as he stood between Sam and this demon.

"I know he won't live to see your destiny play out," Ivers informed him, his tone placid.

"You son of a bitch," Dean snarled and launched at the demon.

Ivers pushed against the air, flinging Dean across the room and slamming him against a wall. Sam grunted in sympathy, watching helplessly as Dean slid to the floor, his face fisted in pain. He saw Dean start to push himself up; Ivers lifted his hand, rocketing Dean's body to the ceiling and slamming him against it hard enough Sam heard the air vacate his brother's lungs in a pain-filled rush. Ivers curled his fingers into a fist and Dean fell to the ground, unable to do more than desperately thrust his hands in front of his face in protection.

"Dean!" Sam cried, his voice crawling up from his gut. "Leave him alone, you bastard!"

"Wait your turn, kitten," Ivers said over his shoulder. "I'm not done playing."

"I'm gonna…gut you…," Dean rasped, getting to his knees.

Sam saw blood trace a path down the side of his face and more staining his lips red.

Ivers bent over Dean's trembling form. "Oh, are you? _Really_? And how exactly are you planning on doing that?"

Reaching down, Ivers picked Dean up by the throat with one hand, slamming him bodily against the wall. Sam struggled against the invisible ropes that held him in place as he watched Ivers lift Dean off his feet, his fingers digging into the soft underside of Dean's jaw.

Dean's fingers clawed at the demon's black-gloved hand, his breath slipping free in a choked, struggling gurgle. His pale face grew red as Ivers slowly cut off his air, and his eyes began to flutter as he struggled.

Sam saw Jake pull lamely against his ropes, his hate-filled eyes pinned to Ivers.

"You hunters…you're all alike," Ivers was saying as Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

Sam saw one of his brother's hands drop away from the grip Ivers had on his throat and his heart lurched.

_Don't give in, Dean…fight him!_

"For hundreds of years you've fought against us. Finding new ways to get yourselves killed. Maybe you manage to send one or two of us back to Hell. But in the end, we will _always win_."

When Dean's hand slammed into the side of Ivers' neck, Sam gasped. Ivers cried out and backed away, dropping Dean into a heap of loose bones on the floor. Dean's cough was wet, wounded; he visibly worked to drag in air as Ivers grasped his bleeding throat, backing away. Shocked, Sam saw the shard of glass Dean had been using to cut Jake's ropes sticking out of the side of Ivers' neck.

"Didn't win this one," Dean rasped from his hands and knees, his eyes pinned to the staggering demon.

Half turning, Ivers ripped the glass from his neck, blood spurting from the wound. He dropped the glass on the floor and stumbled to the doorway. Sam felt his body suddenly free from its invisible bonds and he automatically leaned forward.

"This isn't over!" Ivers declared, then stumbled from the room, leaving a smear of blood on the doorway.

"Fuckin' demons always did talk too much," Jake declared.

"Dean?" Sam started to push away from the wall, the pain in his leg halting him.

Dean's head hung low and Sam could hear him wheezing. He held up a _gimme a minute_ finger in Sam's direction. When he lifted his head once more, Sam flinched. A cut on the side of Dean's head, near his hairline, was bleeding enough that Dean had to wipe blood out of his eye as he gained his feet.

"Are you broken?" Sam asked, remembering the crash into the ceiling and again on the floor.

Dean shook his head. "Shaken. Not stirred." He stumbled forward, holding a hand to his side. "Now, I _really_ want that bastard dead," he said, bending over to pick up the shard of blood-covered glass. He fell to his knees beside Sam. "You okay?"

"You look like hammered shit, man," Sam said honestly.

"Yeah? Well, I feel fantastic," Dean snarked.

"Dean!" Zeke's voice echoed from below.

Dean called back through the door, his voice sounding gutted and reminding Sam oddly of their father's. "Zeke! Get up here! Sam's hurt!"

Sam heard Zeke's footsteps as he pounded up the stairs, then swung into the room, breathless.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean demanded.

Zeke's eyes tracked quickly from the fat man hog-tied in the corner, to Sam and Kate next to the fireplace, to Jake still partially tied to the chair, to Dean kneeling next to Sam, blood running down his face and neck and burying itself beneath the collar of his shirt.

"I, uh, ran into some…friends," he said. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Ivers just about beat him to death," Kate said, her voice trembling.

"Kate," Zeke nodded at the woman.

"Zeke," she replied.

"Friends?" Dean pressed.

"Larabee made it to the Mission," he informed them. "He had some friends with him. Sent them our way. Good thing, too, 'cause…well, it's a mess out there."

"Where's Ivers?" Kate asked.

"Forget about Ivers," Dean said, motioning to Zeke. "You need to take a look at Sam. Now."

"What about you?" Zeke's worried eyes traced the path of blood running down Dean's face.

"I'll be fine! Sam was shot," Dean snapped.

Sam watched his brother use the back of his hand to wipe more blood from his eye. He could see finger-shaped marks on Dean's neck where bruises would eventually blossom and he could _hear_ Dean working to swallow.

"Dean…," he tried, but the closed-lipped glare he received in return silenced him.

Zeke licked his lips, sliding his weapons in his holsters, and moved across the room. He knelt next to Sam, tipping his head toward Jake. "That your friend?"

"If you define friend as a maniac who traps you in a spell and gets your brother shot, then yeah, that's him," Dean replied, gingerly touching the tender skin beneath his jaw.

Sam grimaced watching him.

"Still tied up, here," Jake reminded him.

Dean turned and tossed the piece of glass that had saved his life toward the older hunter. "Knock yourself out," he said, then face Zeke. "What do you think?"

Zeke lifted Kate's bandage and frowned. Pulling Sam's sliced pants wider, his frown deepened. He looked up, then around the room, running the back of his hand over his mouth. Suddenly, Sam started to smell the smoke. He closed his eyes.

_We have the worst timing. Ever._

"Zeke?" Dean asked, his voice tight.

"Well, I got good news and I got bad news," Zeke said. "Sam, I want you to look at me."

Sam obeyed, too tired in the moment to do much else.

"Good news is, the shot went clean through your leg. It doesn't appear to have broken bone, though. Clean through the meat. Were you on your horse at the time?"

Sam nodded.

"Well, the bullet's either buried in the saddle, or we owe Frost another horse," Zeke sighed.

"What's the bad news?" Dean asked.

"Bad news is, he's lost a lot of blood and we have to get the bleeding stopped. Now."

"How?" Sam asked, his voice sounding young and scared even to his ears.

Zeke looked over his shoulder at the fireplace, then at the whiskey Molotov, then back at Sam. "Sam, listen to me. I don't have my tools…I don't have any chloroform."

"Kinda figured you didn't…keep in your pocket," Sam replied, wincing as Zeke probed the wound again. "You trying to tell me this is gonna hurt?"

"I want you to…forget everything I said about whiskey and losing too much blood," Zeke said. "You don't have a fever, so we've got that going for us."

Sam felt himself begin to panic. He couldn't catch his breath. "Dean?"

Dean's hand was gripping his within seconds and Sam's eyes flew to his brother's.

"Hey," Dean said, turning Sam's whole world into one connection.

Dean twisted Sam's hand around and pressed the back of it against his chest. It was an instinctive, natural move and one that had anchored Sam to the belief that they were going to be okay more than anything else had in his youth.

"You remember when you were a little kid? And Dad'd be gone for weeks?"

Sam nodded, staring at his brother, feeling Dean's heart beating against their clasped hands. He was aware that Zeke and Kate were moving around him, that there were other voices in the room, that something was happening with his leg, but the only thing he focused on was Dean.

Not the pain, not the panic, not the heat, not the fear. Just Dean. Battered, bloody, and currently his whole world.

"Remember what I told you when you'd have bad dreams and it was just us?"

"You said you weren't going anywhere," Sam whispered.

"That's right, Sammy," Dean nodded, his pupils large as he kept his eyes on Sam's. Large enough Sam barely saw any green. "I'm not going anywhere without you, okay? I'm not gonna leave you."

Sam nodded, taking a breath, smoke tickling the back of his throat, but not enough to make him cough.

"Dean," Zeke was instructing. "I want you to sit behind him. Hold him, okay? When I tell you, I want you to put this in his mouth and help him hold on."

Sam looked up. "That better not be a bullet," he said.

"Look who still has his sense of humor," Dean said from behind him, the waved a long piece of white material in his face. "It's Kate's unmentionables."

"Swell," Sam grimaced.

"Kate, you hold his leg down. Sit on it if you have to," Zeke told her.

"You got it," Kate replied.

"Jake?" Zeke called.

Sam looked up, surprised, and felt Dean go still behind him.

"Yeah?" Jake replied, hesitantly.

Zeke pulled his gun and handed it to the older hunter. "Make yourself useful and guard the door."

Sam didn't have time to wonder if arming Jake was such a good idea. Zeke was pulling the corked fuse off the bottle of whiskey and handing it to him.

"Take a long pull on that," he instructed.

Sam obeyed and coughed as the fire from the liquid burned down his throat and into his belly.

"Another one," Zeke ordered.

Sam's eyes were watering and his head was swimming. He felt buoyant and sick at the same time. Now he knew why Zeke wouldn't let Dean go this route when he'd already been burning up from fever.

"Okay, hand it back," Zeke said. "Dean? You okay?"

"I got him," Dean said and Sam felt his brother at his back, pulling him up against his chest.

Sam couldn't seem to calm his breathing; he felt it skittering against the edges of his lungs, hammering out through his clenched teeth. He needed something to focus on, something to distract him, and currently, Dean was behind him, out of his field of vision.

"Easy," Dean was saying, and Sam found himself instinctively tuning in the sound of his brother's voice. "Easy, Sammy. I gotcha, okay?"

He suddenly felt an odd kinship with Dean's horse; there was something calming about hearing Dean speak in such a reassuring, confident manner. His brother's body was strong and solid beneath him and Sam felt him breathing. It was a familiar, constant rhythm and had him ignoring the intermittent sound of gunfire and pushing back on his fear of what was to come.

"Use the rag," Zeke said.

"Here, Sammy," Dean said, easing the cloth into his brother's mouth.

Sam saw Zeke tip the mouth of the whiskey bottle over the wound in his leg and he instinctively reached up, grabbing Dean's bicep. Dean held him tight as fire licked his leg, chewing through his flesh and eating away at any brave resolve he might have fantasized he had.

He cried out against the cloth in his mouth. He heard words murmured against his ear as heat spread from the bullet holes through his leg and up into his belly. His head swam, his heart beat at the base of his skull, his leg ached to the bone.

And then Dean's grip tightened. Sam heard something clang to his left. Where the fireplace was. The fireplace with the other branding iron resting in the hot coals.

"Zeke?" He heard Dean say.

He heard Zeke take a breath. "Hold him tight," he said in a low voice.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God…._

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and reached up with his other hand to dig his fingers into Dean's shoulder, pulling his brother as close as possible. Dean's cheek was pressed against his ear and Sam felt the tremble of their bodies as heat from the branding iron singed the hairs on his leg.

"Easy, Sammy. It's okay. It's gonna be okay. I've got you. I've got you. I'm here, I'm not gonna let you go, okay? I'm not gonna let you go."

Sam concentrated on the stream of words coming from Dean's mouth. When the heat touched the open wound, his scream sounded as if it were coming from miles away. The sound was muffled with the twist of cloth, but he felt it. He felt his heart crack with the weight of his own scream.

He bucked against the hold on him—thrashed in desperation to escape. He was aware that the grip on his leg and arms tightened, aware of his brother's breath on his face, but it all felt as if it were happening elsewhere. He was tumbling away, slipping into the dark.

The heat was gone almost as quickly as it came, but then his leg was rotated and the heat returned. His throat felt raw, his body spiked into overdrive to get away from the pain. He wanted to throw up, explode, cry, pass out.

With Dean's voice in his head, Sam gave into the last option, finding solace as he finally sagged back against his brother.

www

"It's done," Zeke was saying, panting as he tossed the branding iron back into the fireplace. "It's all over."

Dean was shaking.

He'd never heard Sam make a sound like that before. That strangled _kill me now_ scream.

He wondered if he'd sounded anything like that when they'd poured the Holy Water over his wounds. Sam was pliant in his arms and Dean was relieved. He knew Sam needed the healing rest and honestly, he needed a minute. It was all too much; Sam was _not_ supposed to be this limp, this still, this pale. Sam was _not_ supposed to scream like that.

Sam was _not_ supposed to be bleeding, branded, broken.

"He gonna be okay?" Dean asked, listening to the razorblades of his voice slice against the air.

Zeke nodded tiredly. "Keep the wound covered. Don't let it get infected. He should be fine."

"Here," Kate said, crouching next to them.

Dean saw she'd been crying and found himself wanting to apologize to her for having to be part of all of this. She handed Zeke another strip of her petticoat. Dean wondered if she had any of it left. Zeke carefully wrapped the sealed wound on Sam's leg until it was thoroughly covered.

"We have to get out of here," Zeke said softly, his eyes on Sam's pale face.

"How?" Dean asked. "He can't ride."

Zeke rubbed his forehead, then glanced at Jake. "He might have to."

Dean frowned, watching their friend. "What aren't you telling me?"

Zeke looked back at him, his eyes tracking to the cut on his head. He reached for it with a piece of petticoat. Dean knocked his hand away. Zeke scowled, his expression clearly stating he was unimpressed with Dean's stubbornness.

"I made it in here just as Ivers and a few others rode out—toward the Mission," Zeke informed him.

"You said Larabee was there, right?"

Zeke nodded. "Yeah, he's there. Protecting Ramirez."

"What about his friends that showed up?" Dean asked. "They still alive?"

"Far as I could tell."

"They probably went to back up Larabee at the Mission, then," Dean surmised, shifting Sam's boneless form against him to get a better hold.

Zeke looked at him for a moment, then said. "I can't leave them to fight him alone, Dean," he said softly. "I gotta be there."

Dean looked down at his brother's closed eyes, still face; he felt the responsibility of Sam's full weight heavy against him. He glanced over at Jake who was finally free of the bindings and simply standing there, body hunched in instinctive protection of his burned chest, watching them.

"It could be all over for us," Dean said softly, feeling exhausted emotion choke off the strength of his words. "I could…I could get Sam home."

"I know," Zeke replied. "I know."

For a heartbeat of time, nothing was said. Then Kate stood, using the wall for support.

"I need to get to my children," she said softly. Dean lifted burning eyes to her. "I don't understand any of this. Not one bit," she shook her head, "but I hope you make it home. Wherever that is."

Zeke glanced once at Sam, then back down at the ground. "Dean…." His eyes were sunken into his face, despair and helplessness evident in his expression. "I gotta see this through," he said finally.

He stood, joints popping with the motion, face drawn with regret. Slowly, he turned to follow Kate from the room. Dean felt as if time were slowing as he heard his own heartbeat slamming hard inside of him.

_What if this is the way it was all supposed to happen?_

He hurt. He was scared.

Sam lay unconscious in his arms.

But he couldn't let Zeke walk away.

_What if _we_ were the ones to defeat Ivers all along?_

Dean closed his eyes, feeling Sam's weight against him, feeling the slow ticks of pain in his own body, feeling the world shift around him.

_You have to promise me something…Ivers has my Mama up at the house…I ain't leavin' until she does…This is our fight…I think it's time we finished it_…_if you promise, I'll believe you_….

He couldn't leave these people to fight a demon alone. Ramirez was right: he was a part of this now. Whether he liked it or not.

"Wait," he called. Zeke stopped, turning to face him with almost comedic eagerness. "Will you…can you help me…get Sam?"

"You got it," Zeke said quickly, his face smoothing as he quickly crossed the room.

"I, uh, can't lift him offa me," Dean grunted as he tried to push Sam gently forward.

"What about Jake?" Zeke asked as he cradled Sam against him, allowing Dean to slide free.

Jake looked at Dean. "Yeah. What about me?"

Dean spared the older hunter a derisive glance. "You're coming with us. You started this mess. You can help end it."

"Hey, I didn't start—"

"Shut up!" Zeke and Dean shouted together.

Zeke took one of Sam's arms, hefting the lanky hunter up and over his shoulder. Dean grabbed the discarded Colt Sam had used to shoot the fat man, then grasped the wall and the stones from the fireplace to help pull himself to his feet. The world tilted crazily for a moment and then reluctantly settled, his perception dialed a little too bright, alerting him to the fact that movement was going to be an interesting adventure. He felt each bruise, each place his body had forcefully impacted the wall, ceiling, and floor as he walked forward.

His vision blurred with every other step and his head pounded. As he passed Jake, he reached out and jerked the borrowed Colt from the older man's grasp, practically willing the hunter to resist. He was in the mood to be mean.

Jake simply released the weapon and followed behind.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Dean found himself wondering about the fire. It should have eaten through half of the house by now. Frowning, he followed Kate and Zeke down the stairs, keeping an eye on Sam swaying over Zeke's shoulder as he did.

_Just smoke…no fire…what the hell?_

"Did Ivers' men put out the fire?" Dean finally asked, swallowing as the smoke tickled the back of his bruised throat.

Zeke frowned, looking as confused as Dean felt. "I don't know," he said, glancing back toward the back end of the large house.

Dean followed his glance and saw a heavy door beneath the staircase separating the front entrance where they stood with the back end of the house. He moved toward it, cocking his head to the side, listening. He could hear what sounded like…popcorn popping. He put his hand on the door and felt an unmistakable surge of heat.

In an instant, scenes from multiple movies flashed through his memory. He looked down and saw smoke curling under the door and stepped back hurriedly.

"Go," he said, waving to Zeke. "Go, the fire's in there—on the other side of that door."

"But—" Zeke started.

"Just go!" Dean ordered. "First bad guy that opens that door is gonna be blown to kingdom come, I promise you."

Frowning, Zeke hurried to the front door and stepped through as Kate opened it. Jake followed and Dean was the last one out, staring around the ruined yard in a fair amount of awe.

"Look what we did," he said softly, gaping at the chaos of the trampled corral, ruined bunkhouse, and at least a half dozen prone bodies.

"Ivers' men are gonna do worse if we don't get moving," Zeke said. "It looks like everyone's gone…or dead."

They moved through the muck of red mud. Zeke whistled a sharp, three-note call and Dean saw Sam flinch from his position over Zeke's shoulder. Hooker appeared out of nowhere. Trailing behind him was the gray mare and Sam's big horse.

"Looks like the saddle stopped the bullet," Dean said, relieved that they had at least these three horses. "Gimme a sec to climb on and then you can help me with Sam."

"_I'll_ hold Sam," Zeke said, shaking his head. Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Zeke cut him off. "I can tell just by looking at you that you're barely hanging on, Dean. Let me help you. I'll get your brother back safely."

Dean closed his mouth, looking at Sam's pliant form hanging limply over Zeke's strong shoulder. He didn't really have much choice; his first priority was making sure Sam was okay. His pride could come in second this time.

"Fine," he snapped, narrowing his eyes at the saloon owner. "But you better hang onto him. Kate, you ride with me."

Kate nodded silently, her focus clearly on getting the hell out of there and back to her kids. Jake wordlessly swung up on Sam's horse, his quiet obedience worrisome to Dean. He hadn't said a word about the disfiguring wound on his bare chest; once more, all he seemed focused on was the weapon—that was apparently in the possession of Rory O'Maera.

He didn't allow himself to think much about it, though, as he pulled his weary body up into the Ghost's saddle. Kate effortlessly swung up behind him. They turned their mounts toward the Mission and weren't more than thirty yards away when the world behind them exploded.

Dean and Kate instinctively ducked, the mare hopped, bucked, and jumped, nearly unseating her riders. Dean darted his eyes quickly forward to see Zeke's broad back covering Sam's slumped one as splinters of wood rained down around them. Straightening, gasping, holding the mare as still as he could, he hazarded a look over his shoulder and saw the large house light up in a fireball, flames and smoke billowing out from the windows on both floors.

He thought of the fat man they'd left tied up in the room and of Kate's venom as she pulled the knots tight. It was hard to muster up much sympathy.

"Guess not _everyone _was gone," Zeke called back to him.

The ranch was destroyed. There was no home, no men, no horses. Nothing to indicate that this was a place that could be owned, possessed. Dean wondered with a blush of raw hope if that was enough to break the hold Ivers had on the five locations.

_Maybe it doesn't matter if he gets the Mission anymore…._

It didn't change anything, though, he knew. There was still a man to save from a demon and a town to protect in their efforts at resistance of evil. He kicked the Ghost into a run behind Zeke and Jake, heading directly for San Jose de Valero. He tried to keep an eye on his brother's slumped form, worried for the moment Sam woke with Zeke behind him and not Dean, but after awhile, it was all he could do to stay astride the anxious mare.

His body wasn't cooperating with his need to be superhuman. He hadn't been fully healed from the Daeva attack; Ivers beating was taking its toll. He didn't register exactly when Kate let go of his waist and reached around him to hold the reins; he only realized that she'd done so when they pulled up to an exhausted stop in front of the Mission.

The ground around the stucco and wood structure was torn up; evidence of a battle was held in the bullet holes and broken fence that the starlight easily exposed. Dean saw that Bird's make-shift herb garden was destroyed and part of the barn had been burned away.

"Where is everyone," Dean heard Sam asking.

His spirits immediately picked up at the sound of his brother's voice—despite the weariness held tight inside the words. Sam was awake. Sam was alive. Anything was possible. He took the reins back from Kate, squaring his shoulders.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Peachy," Sam grumbled. "You?"

"'Bout the same," he replied, though he was willing to bet Sam was in a unique world of hurt; he didn't want to imagine what it felt like to have a cauterized wound rubbing against a saddle—regardless of padding.

"Figured," Sam replied.

"Ramirez?" Zeke called, bringing them back to point.

"I am here," came Ramirez's voice.

The slim priest emerged from the shadow of the arched Mission doorway.

"Ivers?" Zeke asked.

"He…paid us a visit," Ramirez nodded. "We were prepared."

"Where'd he go?" Dean asked.

"Town," Ramirez informed them. "He was led to believe I was there."

"Who led him to believe that?" Sam asked.

Behind Ramirez, Dean saw Chris Larabee standing in the open doorway, leaning casually against the edge. He would have been irritated by the gunslinger's nonchalance if he didn't think the man looked so bad-ass.

"I might've said something," Larabee drawled.

"You think about warning the town he was coming?" Kate asked from behind Dean.

Larabee straightened at the sound of her voice and Dean saw his bright eyes track to her. He tipped his chin down. "Yes, ma'am. I did. Sent a couple of friends down ahead of him as…well, decoys."

"How many friends you got?" Zeke exclaimed.

"Enough," Larabee commented dryly.

"You had Ivers follow your friends?" Dean concluded.

"What about the ones at Ivers' ranch?" Sam asked.

Larabee nodded. "They went on ahead to join in the fun. I stayed back here to make sure Pablo was covered."

"The ranch is gone," Dean said, looking at Ramirez. "Blew up."

"You…blew it up?" Ramirez stepped away from the mission into the starlight.

Dean nodded. "If it's gone, and you chased him away from the Mission…he can't—" he stopped, feeling Kate shift behind him, remembering Sam's plea to keep them innocent. "He can't do what…he was planning…y'know…to do."

Ramirez looked down, a frown shadowing his face. "This could very well be true. If you've destroyed one of the points, and we've denied him another…."

"_He_ doesn't know that, though," Zeke pointed out. "He wants Ramirez. And he aims to get him."

Dean swallowed, nodding. The town was in trouble. Those _people_ were about to be in the fight of their lives. He looked at Sam hunched over in Hooker's saddle. He couldn't see his brother's face clearly, but he felt his resolve bridging the distance between them.

"Okay, let's—" Dean's order was interrupted by noise of a high-pitched whinny and the clatter of hooves departing into the night.

He looked around, confused at first.

"Jake!" Zeke called out.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed at the dust trail. "He's going after that goddamn weapon."

"We have to get there first," Sam exclaimed.

"Think you can make it, Sam?" Zeke asked.

Dean's eyes flew to his brother profile.

"I'll make it," Sam stated, false bravado securely in place and ready to challenge anyone who dared said differently.

Dean looked back at Larabee. "Thanks, man."

Larabee put a finger to his hat brim. "Anytime."

The ride to town was a blur for Dean. He had no energy left to be worried for Sam's pain. He could only work to block out his own and focus on two things: how they were going to stop Ivers and how he was going to kill Jake. He had no clear plan for how they were going to accomplish either one.

And he hated not having a plan.

The noise from the fire fight greeted them before they'd reached the back end of the town. Immediately, Dean saw that the Livery was on fire.

"Dammit!" He cursed, trying to control the frightened mare as they approached the burning structure. "Bird!"

"_My _Bird?" Kate cried from behind him. "She's in there?"

Dean felt cold, helpless fear slip through his bloodstream the likes of which he hadn't felt since the spirit had trapped Sam in their home in Lawrence, shutting him out with a slam of the front door.

"No!" Zeke shook his head, pinning Dean with his eyes. "No, Dean. Listen! Listen!"

At first Dean's fear clouded him to the logic of Zeke's demand. But then he realized what the man meant: he couldn't hear any frightened whinnies or crashes emanating from the interior of the structure. Dean surmised that the horses had either been freed or were being used. And if the horses were free….

"She's in the saloon," Zeke declared. "With Rory. Has to be."

Hoping the saloon owner was right, Dean followed him to the blacksmith's shop, three buildings down from the burning Livery. Shouts and gunfire echoed off the seemingly-abandoned buildings of the town, the burning Livery tossing specters of shadows along the walls. The majority of the chaos seemed to be focused on the main street and the saloon, just as they'd hoped it would be.

_At least something's working in our favor._

The grey mare danced in place, the flames working her up. Hooker, however, lived up to his status of a war vet and stood still as Zeke dismounted, easing Sam off and catching him as Sam's wounded leg buckled beneath him.

Dean swallowed as his gut jumped at the sight of his brother's pain. He helped Kate slide off the back of the Ghost and then dismounted, taking Hooker's reins and moving stiffly to the hitching rail in front of the shop, tying both horses there.

Any of the natural fluidity of movement Dean prided himself on was gone. In its place was a stiff-gaited lurch that telegraphed pain to anyone that looked his way. Sam stood next to Zeke, his arm across the saloon owner's shoulder.

The brothers nodded at each other and Dean offered Sam a small smile, sliding into that expression every small moment of hope he could muster.

"I know," Sam whispered back.

Their voices hushed and hurried, wanting to be ready, but not wanting to draw attention, the battered warriors huddled quickly, gathering weapons as shouts, breaking glass, and quick pops of gunfire sounded in the distance over the roar of the flames eating through the Livery.

Zeke gave Dean a revolver. "I lost everything else back at Ivers."

Dean held up the Colt he'd taken from Ivers' place. "I have this."

"Ammo?"

"One shot down."

"Give it to Kate," Zeke instructed.

Dean glanced at the slim woman who was tying her long hair back in a twisted knot at the base of her neck. "You know how to use one of these?"

Kate lifted an eyebrow, her eyes saying words he doubted she'd ever speak out loud.

"Okay, then," he whispered, handing over the weapon as an act of apology.

"What about me?" Sam asked.

"You just stay upright, kid," Zeke instructed. "Though, I do wish we had that Henry rifle."

"Was the Henry on the saddle of the big horse?" Kate asked.

"Yeah," Dean grumbled. "That Jake rode off with."

"That big horse right there?" Kate asked, pointing past them to a horse wandering, rider less, down the street, away from the flames.

Zeke moved quickly. Handing Sam over to his brother, he jogged down the street, catching the reins of the horse. Dean hefted Sam's weight, trying to take as much pressure off of Sam's wounded leg as possible, and watched as Zeke tied the horse, then pulled a rifle free from the saddle scabbard.

Jogging back, he said, "Jake must've taken the other one."

Dean handed the revolver to Sam, then took the rifle. Thus armed, they hobbled, limped and loped toward the rear entrance of the saloon. Zeke paused at the door.

"When we get in, Kate, you find Rory and Bird. Don't worry about anything else."

She nodded, looking behind her to the brothers. "Good luck," she whispered.

"You, too," Dean said.

Zeke looked at Dean. "If this works…."

Dean felt a torrent of words catch against the back of his throat, fighting against each other for dominance. At the behest of no one and with the encouragement of nothing but his own conscience, this man had joined their fight, made it his own. This man had put himself at risk, had saved him—saved Sam.

No matter what he said in this moment, it wouldn't be enough.

Zeke swallowed, his hazel eyes slipping from Dean's face to Sam's, then back again, filled with a symphony of unspoken sentiment. "Well, it's been interesting."

"We're gonna miss you, too," Sam said quietly.

"Zeke," Dean said quickly. "Thanks…thanks for saving our lives."

Zeke tossed him a half-crazy, half-genuine grin. "Something tells me I was doing everyone a favor."

"Let's roll," Dean said.

Zeke opened the door and led the way into the firefight.

www

He'd never once pictured himself in such a situation. But here he was, and he was determined to survive.

Moving through the back room where Leo's body had once lain, the foursome stepped through the door and Sam almost choked on the smell of gunpowder and blood. It was impossible to tell where everyone was at first, but as Dean tightened his grip and brought them both down into a crouch, his vision cleared and he saw his way through the smoke.

The big mirror behind the bar was shattered and sprinkled across the floor of the saloon, light from the lanterns reflecting off the slivers and dancing around the room. The front windows were broken out, the red and green letters that had once boldly depicted the name of the saloon were now tattered bits of color along the boardwalk and the tables being used as cover. A few people lay prone and still, their bodies pulled to the side of the room. Sam saw Frost among them and he felt a pang of remorse for this man's death.

Sam's leg refused to hold him, shooting electric bolts of hot pain up through his hip and into the base of his skull each time he tried to put weight on it. Dean seemed to instinctively pick up on how to hold him, shoving his sturdy body beneath Sam's shoulder and tucking his hip against Sam's side.

As they found temporary shelter along the side of the large wooden bar, Sam saw several men he'd not encountered before—and hadn't seen among the small group of Sulfur Spring resistance fighters earlier that day—tucked up against windows, firing through the broken glass. Big Bob was near the door, Stella in the far corner, a rifle in her hands. The deafening noise stuttered for a moment as the embattled townspeople rolled for cover and reloaded.

The brothers moved through the melee to find cover behind one of the tables. They dropped down, side by side, their backs to the outside, facing the destroyed interior of the saloon. He'd lost sight of Zeke, and peered through the smoke.

"Mama!"

Sam craned his neck just in time to see Bird fling her little body directly at Kate. He swallowed hard as he saw Kate wrap her up and duck into the shelter of the bar. He could hear the woman's happy sobs.

"Are you okay, baby? Are you hurt? Let me see…let me see you."

"I'm okay," Bird assured her breathlessly. "I'm okay, Mama. Sentenza took care of me. He watched over me, until Dean came."

"Until Dean came?" Kate asked, voice thick with tears.

"He ain't an angel," Bird sniffed. "But he kept his promise."

Rory dashed from the protection of a window, finding his way to his family. Sam was surprised to see a rifle in his hands and not the old Colt he'd been charged with protecting. Remembering Jake's words, he glanced quickly around, but didn't see the Colt lying discarded in the melee.

"Good," Dean breathed. "Least we did one thing right."

Sam looked at his brother and saw Dean's eyes were wet as he watched Kate kiss her son's face while maintaining a firm grip on her daughter. Bird darted her head out from the protection of her mother's arms long enough to find Dean with her eyes. Sam watched her mouth _thank you_ and looked back in time to see Dean's answering smile.

The moment of peace was not to last, however.

As the brothers watched the small reunion, Ivers' men were reloading. Another volley of gunfire swept through the saloon sending people ducking for cover and Sam saw a man he'd played poker with flinch and fall beneath the hail of bullets. He brought his weapon around and fired two rounds blindly through the window behind them.

"Send out the priest!" Ivers bellowed.

"Go to hell!" replied a man wearing a colorful brocade vest and sporting a gold tooth, a Southern drawl evident even in just those few words. Sam had never seen him before.

_One of Larabee's friends?_ He wondered.

Dean exchanged a look with Sam. "This is not going well," he said.

"You see Jake?"

Dean shook his head.

"Send him out, or the Mexican dies!" Ivers declared.

Sam felt the room full of people take a collective breath as everyone glanced around them in puzzlement. Firing ceased; murmuring began.

"No! Sentenza!" Bird's heartbroken cry was like a bucket of cold water on the room.

"Son of a bitch," Zeke growled from somewhere off to the side of the main doors.

Sam looked up to see Zeke crouched next to Stella, hurriedly reloading his pistol. He watched as Dean peeked over the edge of their cover to look outside.

"He has Sentenza," Dean confirmed.

"What the _hell_?" Zeke snapped. "How'd he get ahold of him?"

"He…he was going for help," Stella informed them in a low voice.

"Is Sentenza okay?" Sam asked Dean.

"I can't tell," Dean said. "He looks like he's unconscious."

"Really, what's one more scar," Ivers was saying as his voice drew closer to the saloon. "The man isn't really much to look at, is he?"

Dean sagged for a moment, his face pinched with worry. "I can only see about four other guys out there."

"Lot of bullets for five men," Sam muttered.

Dean looked toward the back of the room. "I know…."

"You let him go!" Bird screamed, her voice desperate.

Sam looked at the O'Maeras huddled together in the shadow of the heavy, wooden bar. Kate gripped the girl tighter, trying to hush her.

"Is that…a _child_?" Ivers almost laughed.

Dean twisted once more, keeping his body covered by the table, peering out through the broken front window. Sam pushed himself to his good knee to see what Dean was seeing. Ivers had wrapped a cloth around his neck where Dean stabbed him. He was holding Sentenza against him like a human shield, a gun at his temple. The mute Mexican looked as if he might already be dead, until Sam saw him slowly roll his head.

"You'd rather risk a child than this priest?" Ivers asked. "Don't you see? You send out Ramirez, I get what I want…and then we're all happy. I can bring you peace, people!"

"That ain't true!" Rory shouted, standing and cocking the rifle in his hands. Kate looked beside herself trying to rein in her willful children. "You're gonna kill everyone. I heard you say it!"

Ivers stepped up to the boardwalk, Sentenza in his arms, a revolver pointed at the man's head. The four men that had been flanking him closed ranks and stayed in the street, their weapons raised. Shocking all inside except Zeke, Kate and the brothers, Ivers lifted a hand and slammed the saloon doors back against the wall, stepping boldly through with Sentenza as his shield.

"You're right, of course," he said calmly. "I _am_ going to kill you all. But, then you'll be at peace."

"You bastard!" Bird yelled. Kate wrapped her arms tightly around the girl.

"Such language," Ivers shook his head, his cold eyes finding Kate and Bird easily. "Kate, I really thought you'd teach your daughter better."

"At least she tells the truth," Rory said.

Ivers leveled dark eyes on Rory. "She'll have a special place in Heaven, then," he snarled, backing the boy down.

"Dean," Sam hissed, nodding to the other side of the room. In the group of bodies where Sam had seen Frost, there was movement. "Look."

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered. "It's Jake."

Sam looked again and saw the older hunter rise from the floor and try to move, undetected, around to flank Ivers. Dean frowned, thumping his back against the table in frustration.

"What the hell is he doing?"

"I don't know, but he's gonna get Sentenza killed," Dean whispered back, drawing his legs under him.

"What the hell are _you_ doing?"

"I can't just sit here," Dean snapped.

And in that moment, Sam knew what his brother was about to do. He reached out to stop him, but before either of them could move, Bird finally broke free of her mother's grasp and darted forward, desperate to get to the person who'd been her protector all this time.

"NO!" Kate's cry was ripped from her heart as she reached for Bird.

Time seemed to stutter, both moving too fast to absorb and too slow to react. Looking back, Sam remembered taking a breath in that moment and then couldn't recall breathing again until it was all over.

Bird rushed toward Sentenza. Ivers lowered the weapon he'd been training on Sentenza's head to track the slim figure of the girl. Dean dropped the Henry rifle and sprang up from the protection of the table, moving faster than Sam thought possible, and ran for Bird.

Without stopping, Dean scooped up the little girl, the bullet from Ivers' gun burying itself harmlessly into the base of the bar. His momentum carrying him across the length of the room, Dean hit the floor and Sam heard him cry out with the impact before he rolled away, his body curled around Bird's.

Before Sam could force his wounded body to react, Zeke took advantage of the distraction and launched for Sentenza, pulling the wounded Mexican free from Ivers' grip and diving clear from another bullet fired from Ivers' gun.

Sam grabbed the Henry rifle, pushing up on his good knee and without pausing to think, fired at Ivers. A volley of gunfire echoed his. The sound was deafening, filling the saloon with declarations of rebellion, defiance.

Ivers' body jerked as bullets from half a dozen guns burrowed into and through him.

When he fell through the doorway of the saloon, the ensuing quiet roared across Sam's ears. Shaken, he tracked his gaze from Ivers' body around the saloon, seeing Stella lowering a revolver, Big Bob holding a rifle, two men Sam had played poker with and two others Sam didn't recognize holstering their weapons, Kate dropping the weapon Dean had given her, and Rory gripping his rifle. He didn't see Jake anywhere.

Sam sank forward, catching himself on his free hand, his leg screaming at him.

Rory dropped his rifle with a clatter, his face ashen. "Bird?" he called out in a weak voice, his eyes searching for his sister's petite form.

"'M okay," came the muffled reply.

Sam shot his eyes over to his brother. He could see Dean's back; he wasn't moving.

_Oh, God_….

"Dean?"

"I think…I think he's okay," Bird replied.

"Dean!"Sam barked, fear turning his voice sharp. "Answer me."

Slowly, as if he were using someone else's body and not his own, Dean rolled to his back, freeing Bird. The little girl popped forward, then wrapped her arms around Dean, helping him sit up. Dean looked over at Sam and swallowed.

"You okay?" Sam pressed.

"It's been a helluva week," Dean said softly.

Kate's strangled scream wiped the relieved grin from Sam's face and he and Dean twisted in unison to see Ivers mirroring Dean's stiff movements: rolling to his side and awkwardly gaining his feet. Every person in the room who had bravely stood against the man shrank back in horror at the reality of the evil.

Ivers' eyes were solid black. Blood poured from the multiple bullet holes that had felled him. And his expression was one of cold fury.

"I've been patient," Ivers said in a low, dead voice as he looked around at the people in the saloon. "I've played by your rules. More or less."

Sam watched as Zeke backed up, holding the still-unconscious Sentenza in his arms, herding Stella behind him toward the group of men by the bar. He turned to see Kate push Rory behind her, her eyes pinned to her daughter, who was across the room. He looked back at Dean and saw his brother struggling to gain his feet, lurching with fatigue.

"But I'm starting to think you people don't _appreciate_ the _tolerance_ I've shown you!" Ivers bellowed. "So, now we play by _my rules_!"

The men who'd stood in the street behind Ivers began to back up until Sam could no longer see them. The firelight from the Livery tossed disorienting shadows on an empty street and suddenly he wasn't in a firefight. And this wasn't the Old West. And there was nothing surreal about this moment.

He was a hunter facing off a demon. He was doing his job, what his father had trained him to do. It just so happened to be taking place in the middle of a saloon.

"I want that fuckin' priest, and I'm going to take each of you apart, piece by piece, until I get him," he growled, his voice tripping down a couple of octaves. "Starting with _you_."

He flung his hand out toward Dean, who was standing more-or-less upright near the center of the room, Bird tucked behind him. The demon curled his fingers into a fist. Sam gasped as Dean cried out, his body bowing backwards as it was yanked across the floor, away from Bird. Sam saw the young girl reach out, fingers digging into Dean's calf, trying to pull him back toward her.

Ivers brought his hand toward him and Dean came with it as if tied to an invisible string.

"Dean!" Sam yelled.

Dean's eyes rolled closed and Ivers tightened his fist, his scarred face showing delight as Dean cried out, helplessly.

"No!" Sam breathed, bringing up the Henry rifle, knowing it wouldn't stop the demon, but desperate to do something to stop his brother's pain.

"Ivers!" Jake's voice was a shock of sound in the suffocating quiet of the room.

Sam's eyes flew to the shadows of the room near the stairs that led up to Stella's brothel. Jake stood there, his shirt clinging to his wounded chest with blood too fresh to be from the pentagram branding, his eyes wild with pain and insanity, his body solid and still as he held Rory's ancient Colt on Ivers.

"I told you I was here to watch you die," Jake said.

Before Ivers had time to mock him, Jake pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed into the side of Ivers' skull and the demon collapsed, dropping Dean into a crumbled heap. Bird immediately ran to him, tearfully tugging his shoulders upward and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Sam began to crawl to his brother, his wounded leg dragging uselessly behind him. Just before he got to Dean, he stopped to watch in arrested shock as Ivers' skeleton glowed a bright orange, his eyes lit up unnaturally, his ears smoked, and his body shook.

It was as if the bullet fired from that weapon had lit the demon on fire from the inside.

Trapped by the unreal reality he was bearing witness to, Sam reached out blindly for Dean and found his brother reaching back instinctively. Their eyes were pinned to the body before them, shocked by the realization that they were watching a demon die.

In moments, Ivers stopped twitching. And he didn't move again.

No one spoke. Sam barely dared to breathe.

Dean's fingers curled against Sam's shirt, the tremble there not of weakness or fear, but of exhausted relief.

"Is…is he dead?" Bird finally asked.

"Yeah, kid," Dean rasped, using his grip on Sam's wrist to pull himself to a sitting position. "He's dead."

Bird released her hold on Dean's neck. The brothers sat very still, breathing in tandem as they stared in disbelief at the body of a demon. Sam heard the shuffle of boots against the gritty wood floor and saw Rory O'Maera crouch next to his sister, pulling her slim body to him and wrapping his arms around her. Sam felt Dean flinch as the girl finally gave in to tears, sobbing quietly against her brother's chest.

The slam of a door snapped Sam's attention away from Ivers' body.

"Oh, shit," he looked at Dean with a sickening realization. "Jake."

Dean's eyes caught his and in them Sam saw time slipping through their grasp. If they lost Jake now….

"We have to go after him," Dean said.

"He went out this way…out the back," Zeke called to them from his position near the stairs that led up to Stella's brothel. "C'mon, I'll help you."

"No," Dean shook his head, looking over at their friend. "You've done enough, man."

Sam watched as he looked over at Stella who was huddled on the floor, holding Sentenza, then at Bird who was tucked against her brother's chest, her tear-streaked face peering back at them. Kate moved from the shadow of the big bar and found her children, sinking to her knees behind them and pulling them close to her.

Lifting his eyes back up to Zeke's, Dean said, "You take care of them. We got it."

Sam knew what his brother was thinking. If they found Jake…and if they figured out how to get home…there was no way they were going to risk taking anyone back with them. It seemed too fast, too soon. They'd been through so much with these people just to walk away from them.

But walking away was the only chance he and Dean had.

Dean got to his knees, then with a groan and a grimace pushed to his feet reaching down for Sam. Grasping his brother's forearm, Sam allowed himself to be tugged upwards until he was basically on his feet, listing away from his throbbing, wounded leg. They leaned against each other, neither having enough strength to stand on their own, both determined not to fall.

In unison, they faced Zeke. Sam swallowed as the saloon owner stared back at them, a revolver in one hand, a rifle in the other. Swallowing audibly, his lips pressed tight against words Sam imagined he wanted to say, Zeke nodded at them, then moved aside, allowing them space to pass. Sam moved forward, clutching his brother with a desperate grip.

"Hey," Dean called, pausing and looking back over his shoulder.

Sam saw Zeke lift his chin in question.

"Take care of my horse," Dean implored him.

Zeke's mouth twitched in an appreciative grin and he saluted Dean with the barrel of a familiar-looking weapon before the brothers turned once more toward the back door. Sam's heart was beating a tricky cadence.

_This is it_.

They had to find Jake and they had to make a decision.

"Jake!" Dean called out as they stepped through the doors of the saloon into the Texas night. Light from what seemed like a billion stars turned the empty side street silver. "Where the hell are you?"

"He was bleeding pretty badly," Sam said. "He couldn't have gone far."

"Sam…," Dean started as they lurched down the boardwalk. "If we're gonna make it home…."

"I know," Sam said, his throat closing around the words. After so much death…there was still one more. "Jake!"

"Stop yellin' already," came a voice from the shadows.

Sam stumbled, grabbing Dean for support. Dean went to his knees under Sam's weight. And they were suddenly eye to eye with Jake Brand.

He'd fallen into an alley behind the saloon, then apparently dragged himself up against the side of the building. The brothers crawled to either side of him, peering at his pale face. Shadows from the dying fire dancing across all three of them. Sam saw that the entire front of Jake's chest was black with blood.

"God, Jake…," he murmured, easily able to imagine the pain the man must be in now that he knew what it felt like to be shot.

"Don't hurt much…anymore. Caught a bullet when the fighting first started. Thought I was dead. Guess…guess I still had some fire in me," Jake chuckled weakly. "I can tell you, though…if you have the choice…being shot hurts a helluva lot less than being branded."

_Says you, _Sam thought.

"Jake," Dean asked, resting a hand on the man's shoulder. "Where's the weapon? The…the Colt?"

Jake swallowed. "Y'know…it's funny. My plan to get back…I thought I could do it all again. I thought I could kill again…. Keep moving through time…. Take these sonsabitches out one by one…. Maybe Max and Leo…maybe they were right. Maybe I ain't some bad-ass killer."

Sam felt his heart twist.

"I…wanted to make it right…for m'boy," Jake wheezed. "Couldn't save him…."

"Jake," Sam leaned forward. "You saved _us_. All of us."

Jake's cough was wet and Sam realized the man was trying to laugh.

"Fuckin' ironic, ain't it?" Jake coughed. "All this…just to find that Colt…and now…."

"Jake," Dean pressed. "Where is it?"

"I left it," Jake rasped. "I gave it to…to the doc." He looked toward Sam. "The one that fixed you up."

"Zeke?" Dean asked, surprised.

Sam blinked, remembering the weapons Zeke'd held when they passed him, wondering if the man had any idea what it was he held in his hands.

Jake nodded. "Figured…if anyone could protect it…it'd be him."

Sam looked at his brother. Dean's face was tight and pale in the silver glow of the stars. He grimaced as he pulled apart Jake's shirt and sympathy rolled through his expression as he exposed the older hunter's wounds to the night.

"Jesus, Jake…all this…all this _pain_…for nothing." Dean shook his head, his voice choked.

"No…not nothing," Jake whispered. "I killed a demon. I killed the thing that took my son away from me. I…I was cursed…used the blood of another man's…another man's son. But, I killed the bastard. I did it for Sean. Eye for an eye. My…my boy can be at peace now."

Sam swallowed, thinking of John, of the look of utter relief in his father's eyes when they first glimpsed him standing at the window in the hotel room in Chicago. He suddenly, desperately missed his dad.

Jake exhaled slowly, a wet rattle in his chest. Sam looked at Dean and saw his brother's chin tremble. He realized what was causing the look of sick understanding to claim Dean's expression: Jake had taken the decision out of Dean's hands.

His foolhardy—yet heroic—actions had claimed his life and with that, he would send them home.

_Where will we land? What if we're not together? What if what happened to Leo happens to us?_

"You boys…you tell your Dad…," Jake whispered. "You tell him…to hang on to you…. Nothing…nothing as strong as family."

"You got it, Jake," Dean promised, pressing his hand on the man's mangled chest, Jake's blood coating his palm and bubbling up between his fingers.

Sam found that it was suddenly hard to breathe. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up.

_Oh, God, this is it._

He reached out, and placed his hand on top of Dean's, Jake's blood smearing between his brother's fingers to run down Sam's hand. Looking at Dean, he saw that his brother's eyes were already on him.

Sam was suddenly afraid. To his bones afraid.

The first time he hadn't known what was happening. This time he knew not only what to expect but what to fear. And he almost pulled his hand away.

He almost let go.

But electricity had begun to snap around them, humming between them, turning his skin into a live wire and rushing the blood through his veins.

He meant to take a breath. He meant to say something to Dean. _Good luck. Good bye. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for being my brother_.

But before he could open his mouth, he felt Jake's breath leave his body and with that surrender, time sparked and Sam's world turned white, Dean's eyes an image burned into the back of his brain before everything stopped.

_Everything. _

Time, breath, heartbeat, meaning.

And then in a dizzying rush, a vortex of truth folded around him and the ripping sensation of being eaten by silk teeth tore through him and he was suddenly overwhelmed with images of everyone he'd ever loved and everything he'd ever felt and all of the death he'd caused and all of the lives he'd saved and he was burning.

Fire screamed through him and rendered him powerless to do anything but scream back until light was cutting him with its brilliance and he was falling.

The impact rocked through him and he tasted tears and blood and he felt himself sobbing, shaking, reaching. A hand gripped his and he opened his swollen, gritty eyes to see the blood-smeared face of his brother lying next to him before he succumbed to the quiet peace that was darkness.

* * *

**a/n: **Home! Sort of….

One more chapter and an epilogue left to go (and I'll post them both at the same time). Working to twist the remaining pieces of this story into a solid weave that leaves you satisfied.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Chapter 1.

**a/n**: And…we've come to the end.

I hope these final parts are to your satisfaction. For the heck of it, I'll repeat the writing credo that I stole from Chaucer: _I'm a writer, I give the truth scope_. This, my friends, helps to define some of these fanfiction stories where I ask you to suspend reality and wrap yourselves in the wonderful possibilities of the supernatural.

**Kelly**, thank you for your patience and tolerance as I took your "write a Western" request and forged my own path. I hope this was worth the wait.

* * *

_Half of writing history is hiding the truth._

_~ Anonymous_

www

_Maera, Texas 2005_

He couldn't open his eyes.

The world was intent on drowning him in noise and suffocating him with motion. Pain wrapped around his head in a vise-like grip, pushing against the backs of his eyes and digging claws into his neck. Thoughts slipped through his grip like vapor, half-truths that frightened him with their lack of substance.

"Dean…help him…."

_Sam?_

Dean tried to wrap his lips around the word, but the pain in his head grew until it was white-hot and blistering.

"Aw, _Jesus…_fuck me…what the hell did you _do_, Jake?"

He didn't know that voice and his instincts were a live wire, screaming for action. He tried to turn, to roll, to reach…. There was a hand in his, fingers curled into his palm and gripping, hard.

"Dean!"

"Sammy…."

There. He'd done it. He'd said the name.

"I'm here, man."

"Where…where…." His tongue was too big for his mouth.

He could feel himself lying on a stone floor, feel the contact with the ground at his head, shoulder, elbow, hip, knee. He could feel cold seep through seemingly shattered skin, feel the contour of the stone sloping and dipping to meet and mesh. Dust coated the air, lacquering his throat and he dragged in breath after breath through his parted lips.

He fought to open his eyes, battling the crazy rush of sound that seemed to actually press against him. Through the slits of his eyelids, shadowed by his lashes, he caught a blurred glimpse of a person crouched over him.

A rush of memory twisted in his gut.

_Demon…black eyes…Sam shot…blood…firefight…Ivers burning…Jake…Jake…._

"Jake?" Dean called, confusion turning his voice thick.

He suddenly realized he could hear someone crying. Gut-deep sobs of remorse and regret came from the blurred man who was on his knees next to him—between him and Sam, Dean now realized. It was sorrow beyond comprehension, regret wrapped in loss. The hand gripping Dean's tugged and he slowly turned his head to see the large, scared eyes of his brother.

"Dean, hey, hey, stay looking at me, okay?"

"What…," he tried once more. The word caught in the back of his throat and began to dissolve. It was becoming increasingly impossible to keep more than one thought clear.

"We're back," Sam informed him, tugging his hand once more to keep his wavering attention. "We're _back_, Dean."

"Back?" Dean rolled his eyes to look back at the blur. He recognized him now: Max Thomas, the man who looked like Sam Elliott in _The Roadhouse_. Jake's friend. "Aw, shit. Jake…."

Max was on his knees between them, the bloody body of his friend caught up in his arms, rocking back and forth, his face pressed against Jake's neck. Dean looked back at Sam who hadn't taken his eyes from Dean's face.

"Dean…hey, don't close your eyes, man."

He wanted to, though. He _really _wanted to.

"We're back?" he asked his brother again, watching Sam's pinched face as his brother's eyes searched his. "Are you okay?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. Leg hurts like a mother…."

_Sam shot…branding iron…._

"Jesus, Sammy…," he groaned.

"Dean, we're in the Mission."

"What?" Dean turned his head once more, but the world took a second to catch up, spinning around him and trying its level best to toss him off. He groaned again, closing his eyes. Something sticky and wet trailed across his lids.

"Max," he heard Sam saying. "Max, we need your help."

"Where's Leo?" Max asked in a thick, choked voice. "What the _hell_ happened? I was only gone for a minute!"

Dean swallowed and blinked his eyes open once more. The blood that had trailed down the side of his face stung his eye and he reached up with a clumsy, uncooperative hand to wipe it away, trying to clear his vision.

He worked to take stock: dizziness, pain, nausea…. He had a concussion; he'd had them before and recognized the signs. He didn't know if it was from Ivers' attempt to shove him through the ceiling of the ranch house or the _jerk-your-guts-out-through-your-nose_ sensation of falling through time, but he was in trouble.

"Sam," he tried, but the world spun around him again and he focused simply on breathing and not throwing up.

"Easy, man," Sam said, giving his hand a gentle tug of reassurance. "Just breathe, okay?"

"We're in the Mission?" Dean slurred.

"God_dammit_," Max sobbed, looking at the empty face of his dead friend. "It worked, didn't it? You crazy motherfu—"

"Listen, Max," Sam soothed, his voice tight and trembling from pain. "I'll explain everything, but we. Need. Your. Help."

Dean blinked his eyes open wide, the fear in his brother's voice as sobering as a cup of black coffee. He had to pull it together, help Sam. The kid was hurt…he had a bullet hole in his leg, and he…he needed to…, _dammit, why can't I think straight?_

"Did you say you were…only gone…for a minute?" Dean asked Max.

"I took that girl out to the truck," Max said, still gripping Jake's body against his, still rocking. "There was this…sound…like a fuckin' tornado ripped through the building. I came back and…Jake's dead…Leo's gone…and you two are a bloody mess."

"We've…been gone three days," Dean whispered, closing his eyes once more.

"What?" Max's voice was a crack of disbelief.

"Okay, listen to me," Sam barked in a rough, worn voice. Dean jerked in surprise: if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn their father just showed up. "The ritual worked. We all got caught in it. Leo died. Jake died. I got shot. My brother got beat up by a demon. You want more details? Get us the hell out of here."

Dean opened his eyes and blinked in wonder at his brother. Sam's face was tense, his jaw tight enough that a muscle bounced along his jaw line, and his skin was milk-pale.

"Sammy?"

Sam looked at him and his face fell. "Aw, dammit, Dean…."

"What?" Dean frowned.

He felt oddly light as he looked back at Sam. He heard Max curse and slid a bleary glance over at the older hunter. Max visibly paled, then gently released Jake's body, laying him on the ground near their feet.

"Dean," he rumbled, "you just stay awake, okay? Stay talking to your brother. I'll be right back."

"Whasss…," Dean tried, his mouth uncooperative. "Dude…."

He blinked rapidly, his stomach turning with the rotation of the Earth. He rolled his head toward Sam as Max stood and hurried to the door of the abandoned Mission. For a brief moment, the brothers were alone, the body of a disillusioned hunter their only companion. Dean stared at Sam, watching tears fill his brother's eyes.

"Don't cry, Sammy."

"You don't look so good, Dean," Sam informed him. "You're too pale…your eyes…something's not right with your eyes…."

"'S gonna be okay," Dean said, attempting a reassuring smile but not certain he made it. "We're back, man."

Sam squeezed his hand. "Yeah, we're back. You ready to get back in the Impala?"

At that, Dean did grin, briefly. "Yeah."

"Don't close your eyes, Dean," Sam pleaded suddenly.

Dean popped his eyes open hurriedly. He hadn't realized he'd let them shut. "Head hurts."

"I know," Sam said, tears leaving tracks down his dirty face and dripping onto the stone floor.

"You okay?" Dean asked again, feeling reality begin to fold and fray around the edges. Something was wrong with Sam…he just couldn't remember what.

"No," Sam whispered. "I'm not okay."

"Hang in there, kiddo," Dean whispered back, his eyes slipping shut.

"Dean, please…."

There was something he was supposed to do. Something Sam was asking him to do.

But it could wait. It could all wait.

It could wait until there was enough light to chase the darkness away.

www

Lying helpless on the dusty, cold stones of the abandoned Spanish Mission, Sam felt his heart crack as Dean's eyes rolled closed. He shook Dean's arm, calling his brother's name, but Dean was limp, unresponsive. He tried to pull himself upright, but the fire in his leg caught him and held tight.

Sam dropped his head back against the stone and gave in to exhausted emotion. His tears were hot against his chilled skin, his shallow gulps of breath echoing dully off the empty walls. He couldn't keep his mind wrapped around the fact that just one day earlier he sat in this very place, holding onto Dean while a priest cleansed his brother's Daeva wounds with Holy Water.

_One day and a hundred years ago_….

"Sam?"

Sniffing, Sam brought his head up and watched Max stumble back inside, a flashlight adding to the dim light from the candles Jake had lit for the ritual.

"You gonna help us?" Sam asked, his voice watery.

"Yeah, kid. I'm gonna help," Max reassured him. "I called a friend—he's about an hour away. He's gonna meet us at the clinic outside Maera."

"Clinic?" Sam asked, hope striking hot and fast against his heart.

They were _back_. There was _medicine_ here.

"Hospital is too far," Max said, setting the flashlight down and crouching next to Dean. "And I don't know how I'd explain all this anyway."

Sam nodded and watched as Max gently lifted Dean, tipping him forward, and hefting him over his shoulder. Just as before, the trip through the claws of time had ripped apart their clothes. The black shirt and pants Dean had borrowed from Bird were shredded, hanging from his limp body in frayed strips, exposing the flesh of his arms, chest, and legs in quick glimpses as Max stood and turned.

"I'll be right back."

Sam lay back, holding his breath for a moment, listening. Maera and the Mission were miles outside of a major city and yet…it was so _loud_. He could hear the rumble and hum of semi trucks on the Interstate that ran, he remembered, several miles to the West. Somewhere in the distance a train whistle blew. And underneath it all was a buzz of electricity that he'd never really noticed before.

Add to that the thunder of his hammering heart and Sam wanted clap his hands over his ears, shut out the cacophony of the modern world, return—just for a moment—to the silent stillness of where he'd come from. It was too much…too much.

Max returned, panting slightly, and reached down for him. Sam gripped the man's arm, gritting his teeth as he sat up. The heat from his wounded leg intensified as his bare skin made contact with the stone floor. He shivered in the night as his shirt did nothing to protect him.

"Can you stand at all?"

"Uh…," Sam thought quickly. "I don't think so."

"'S okay, kid. Hang onto me."

As Max pulled him to his feet, the pain in Sam's leg ricocheted through his body and he cried out helplessly. Max shifted quickly, rotating a shoulder under Sam's arm and took most of his weight. They staggered through the doorway; Sam was spinning with pain, but aware enough to see they were headed for the red pick-up.

"Our car…," he started.

"We'll have to come back for it."

"Jake?"

"I'll get him," Max grunted as he opened the front door. "I ain't leavin' him here."

Sam whimpered aloud as Max hefted him into the front seat of the truck. When the door closed behind him, Sam gripped his thigh, feeling the heated swelling of his skin from the damage there. Breathing through his mouth to try to calm his racing heart, Sam twisted carefully to look over his shoulder to the back seat.

The girl Max had carried from the room was sitting behind the driver's seat, face tear-streaked, eyes wide and shocky, staring straight ahead. On the seat next to her, lying curled on his side as if he'd simply gone to sleep, blood from his head wound leaving a path on the fabric and marring that illusion, was Dean. Sam tried to reach him, to check to see if he was breathing, but he could barely lift his arm over the seat. Even the slightest shift sent shocks of pain through his already taxed system.

"Hey," Sam said softly, hearing the tears in his voice. He hadn't even realized he was still crying. "Hey, there," he repeated, trying to get the girl's attention.

She looked over at him, her breath hitching in a hiccup, her eyes terrified.

"Can you…would you make sure he's still breathing?" Sam asked. "Please? I can't…I can't reach him."

"Am…," she swallowed. Her voice was slightly rough, trembling. "Am I dreaming?"

Sam stifled a sob. "Yeah. Yeah, this is all a dream. I swear. You're gonna wake up and it's all going to go away."

Somewhat mollified by his lie, the girl reached out a shaking hand and rested it gently on Dean's neck.

"I…I feel his heartbeat," she said.

"Is he breathing?" Sam asked.

She carefully shifted her fingers to Dean's face, hovering them in front of his mouth and nose.

Nodding quickly, she said. "He's breathing."

Sam felt dizzy with relief. "Okay, you can close your eyes now."

She obeyed immediately, dropping her head back and closing her eyes. She kept her hand resting on Dean's neck, and the sight that someone was touching his brother, anchoring him in the _now_, reassured Sam. He faced forward, catching a glimpse of the bed of the truck in the rear-view mirror as he shifted.

Max stood back there holding Jake's broken body. Sam watched as Max curled his friend toward him, smearing Jake's blood on his face in his grief, the rolled Jake from his arms into the truck bed and lifted the tailgate, keeping him tucked safely in the truck bed.

Sam closed his eyes. He'd had enough death. Enough pain.

He wanted to go away somewhere inside himself, wake up when he didn't hurt anymore and when Dean was his usual, pain-in-the-ass brother. He wanted to sit next to Dean in the Impala and complain about his brother's taste in music while a zephyr cut through the open windows of the car and carried them safely through the night.

He wanted to go _home_.

The driver's side door opened and closed. Sam didn't move. He felt a hand on his neck, checking for pulse. He stayed still.

"Son of a bitch," Max Thomas cursed as he revved the pick-up to life. "How did we let this get so fucked up?"

Sam knew the man wasn't talking to any of the broken people still breathing in the truck with him. He knew he wasn't asking for an answer, either.

But he gave him one anyway.

"Because you got to the end of what you knew and you ran out of places to run."

www

The first time Dean opened his eyes he was overwhelmed by light.

It shone in his eyes, surrounded him, and practically lifted him up from the stiff confines of whatever held him. Voices swam around him, bobbing to the surface of his understanding then sinking back into undecipherable murmurings. He felt hands on his skin, some gentle, some demanding. He felt himself pulled and shifted, turned and pushed and he wanted them all to go away.

Leave him, let go.

The only thing clear in the chaos was a thought. A single heartbeat of thought that thrummed through him and kept him from releasing the scream he could feel bouncing in the wings of his control.

_Sam._

The next time he opened his eyes it wasn't as bright, but it was _loud_. There were voices—clearer this time—calling out instructions, saying his name, demanding that he answer them. He didn't recognize a single one of them, and it scared him.

And when he was scared, he reacted.

He thrust out a fist, feeling it contact solidly with skin and bone and used that momentum to try to propel the rest of his body away from the voices. But his movement spurred the world's rotation and he slipped and slid until he fell off, tumbling head-first into darkness.

He opened his eyes a third time and there was soft light around him, the smell of soap and coffee, and the sound of one voice.

"Dean?"

He blinked, staring up at the strange face without comprehension. There were very few faces that were immediately recognizable in Dean Winchester's life. His was a rather small circle of friends. This face—though benign and peaceful—was not one of them. Dean felt his mouth pull down in an automatic, resistant frown.

"Do you know where you are?"

Dean swallowed, looking away from the placid brown eyes and calm, nondescript face. His eyes rested on a dark TV sitting on top of a small chest of drawers. It took him a moment to connect why seeing a TV was so significant. And then it hit him in a rush, a flood of overwhelming sensation and emotion and he was spinning with it.

He reached up in automatic reaction, covering his mouth, the nausea building with terrifying swiftness. A hand was suddenly on his shoulder—an unfamiliar weight—and a slim, pink basin appeared in his field of vision. The complete ridiculousness of the basin's size replaced his nausea with hilarity and he felt a quick blast of insane laughter build in his chest.

"Take it easy," the stranger encouraged, his voice soft, soothing. "You've been through a lot…just breathe."

The laugh dissolved quickly and Dean felt the heated burn of tears kick the backs of his eyes. He looked away from the TV, focusing on the man leaning close to him and tried desperately to dig his fingers into the series of thoughts he felt were clamoring for attention in his memory.

"We're back," Dean said.

He meant for it to be a statement, but heard the almost child-like search for reassurance lingering around the words. It didn't occur to him until after the man nodded that this person might not have any idea what he was talking about.

"You're back," the man confirmed. "My name is Joe. I'm a friend of Max's."

"Joe," Dean repeated, looking around himself again, gathering his grounding. Taking a steadying breath, Dean registered that he was not at a motel or a hospital, but there was something very _medicinal_ about his surroundings. "You know where my brother is?"

Joe nodded. "He's in the next room."

"He okay?" Dean pushed against the soft bed, trying to sit up.

Joe slipped a hand behind Dean's shoulders and helped slowly ease him up. "Easy," he said softly. "Don't go too fast. Any pain? Nausea?"

"My brother?" Dean returned.

Joe nodded. "He's fine, Dean. We did some minor surgery on his leg to repair some of the internal trauma, but there's no permanent damage. He's getting some more antibiotics right now, just needs some decent rest and he'll be up and around."

Dean gingerly leaned his head back against the pillow that Joe put behind his head. He closed his eyes, steadying the tremble inside of him. "He had a good doctor," Dean said softly.

"I need to examine you, if that's okay," Joe told him. "You've been in and out a bit over the last few days."

That brought Dean's head up. "Few days?"

Joe nodded, pulling a small flashlight from his pocket. He shone it first in one of Dean's eyes, then in the other, before clicking it back off. "How's the pain?"

Dean bit back his built-in, automatic reaction of denying he was in pain. "Not bad," he said.

"Can you give me a number?"

"Less than eight," Dean assessed. "Where are we, Joe?"

"Any nausea, dizziness, halos around objects?"

"No, yes, no." Dean stared at him, slipping a wall in place in his expression until he got the answers he sought.

Joe sighed, then sat on the end of Dean's bed, which surprised him. It was a familiarity that Dean wasn't accustomed to in the medical community. He shifted slightly away, feeling the tug and pull of reluctant muscles.

"You're in a clinic just outside of Maera," Joe told him. "Max brought you here two nights ago—this is your third day here."

"Clinic?" Dean frowned.

"The nearest real hospital is about two hours away," Joe informed him. "People who can't be treated here get life-flighted out. Max wasn't sure he could…explain…."

Dean nodded. "You work here?"

Joe shook his head. "I actually work back on the East coast—Boston. Max is a…friend of the family, you might say."

"You…came out here from…Boston?" Dean asked, reaching up to scratch distractedly at a pinch of skin along the side of his face.

"Don't mess with that. You've got a few stitches there," Joe informed him, causing Dean to drop his hand and wish for a mirror. "And, no…I was out here anyway. Max called me about a week ago. He was worried about Jake. I decided to come by, visit some family that lives around here, see if I could track Max down. He found me instead, turns out."

Dean huffed. Leo had called another hunter, Max had called a doctor…and still, everything fell apart.

"Jake and Leo are dead," Dean said softly.

"I know," Joe nodded. "Max, he…well, losing both of his friends like that after all they survived together…it really messed him up."

"Where is he?"

Joe glanced toward the curtained window. "He took Jake's body back to where they buried Sean."

"Sean?" Dean frowned, the motion pulling at his stitches.

"His son," Joe clarified. "Said it wasn't too far. He should be back today."

"Why's he coming back?"

Joe looked at him, surprise leaving tracks on his face. "To make sure you guys are okay."

Leaning his head back again, Dean had to wonder about that. Max hadn't been the one to call them for help, and, ultimately, they hadn't helped anything. As far as Dean was concerned, the older hunter had done all he needed to by getting them to the clinic.

_Getting us to the clinic…._

"Joe, my car…uh…," Dean rubbed at his aching forehead. "We left her…."

"It was back at the Mission," Joe informed him. "Max and I brought it back to the motel yesterday."

Dean opened his eyes. "You did?"

Joe nodded. "Your brother told us where the spare keys were."

Dean processed that for a moment. His keys had been lost along with almost everything else he owned, aside from his boots, in the first pass through time. He was just glad he hadn't been wearing anything he really valued—like his Dad's leather jacket, or the amulet his brother had given him—when they initially went to the Mission after Jake.

"So…she's okay, then?"

Joe chuckled slightly. "Yeah. The car's fine." He stood and moved to the bedside table, filling a plastic cup with water from a sweaty pitcher. "Make sure you drink plenty. You're really going to need to build your strength back up."

"When can I see my brother?" Dean took the water and sipped it gratefully.

"Whenever you want," Joe informed him. "He'll be back in here as soon as his infusion is done. I wanted to give him a final bolus of antibiotics and we don't have a lot of equipment around here. Had to move him into the next room—it's where any local oncology patients are given infusion treatment. Easiest way to get the medicine into his system quickly."

Joe moved to the other side of the bed and leaned over Dean, turning his head gently by grasping his chin. "Stitches look good."

"I hate stitches," Dean grumbled.

"So you've said," Joe informed him. "Several times, in fact."

"I did?" Dean looked at him in surprise. "I…I don't remember…."

"It's perfectly normal," Joe said. "We woke you up several times to do a concussion check. You weren't always…cooperative," he smiled slightly, working his jaw back and forth.

"Did…did I _hit_ you?" Dean frowned, flexing his fist as the memory surfaced.

"You did indeed," Joe nodded, moving around to foot of the bed. "One time I asked you who was President and you said you knew it wasn't Lincoln, 'cause he was dead, but you couldn't remember who the other guy was."

Dean closed his eyes with a groan. "Dude, if you only knew…."

"Oh, believe me," Joe chuckled. "I'm in no rush to find out how hellish time travel can be."

Dean blinked his eyes open, staring at the doctor in shock. "What did you just say?"

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, turning toward the window. "Max told me what you two had been through—or as near as he knew, anyway. Sam helped fill in a bit of the rest." He pushed the curtain open with two fingers and spoke to the glass. "There's been at least one hunter in my family as far back as the Civil War. Not everyone…_believed_, I guess you could say. Those that did, kept it quiet. I never really liked that much." He turned to face Dean. "I understood it…but I didn't like it."

Dean watched him, willing the grind of remembered pain in his head to hold off, just a bit longer.

"I don't…_do_ what you do. What Max does. But I know what you do, and I know why." He tucked the tips of his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and shrugged. "I've known Max a lot of years; I was happy to be able to help."

Absorbing that, Dean leaned against the pillows once more, his eyes on the quiet TV.

"Your bother has a bullet wound in his thigh that was cauterized by a branding iron. You have a concussion and bruising on your neck indicative of someone's hand trying to squeeze the life out of you. Both of you have some pretty severe contusions and abrasions. Not to mention exhaustion, sunburn, blisters..."

"What's your point, Doc?"

Joe sighed, moving slowly toward the door of the room. "My point is that if you'd shown up in a hospital with that list of wounds, someone would have called the police and someone _else_ would have had a lot of explaining to do. Especially considering you were both practically naked when you got here—and _you_ were wearing a pretty authentic-looking gun holster." His eyebrows went up in a sign of admiration. "You two live a very dangerous life…one that I don't envy. But…I think it's necessary. And," he shrugged, reaching for the doorknob, "I'll do what I can to make sure you stay in the game."

Dean watched him leave. As the door clicked shut behind the doctor, Dean let his body relax back into the bed. His head swam with information, and he felt each bruise and pulled muscle Joe had listed off.

He wanted to get back to his car, his weapons, his brother, his normal.

He didn't want to _think_ anymore.

Not about _then _and _now_. Not about Dad. Not about _what if_s. Not about spells and rituals or a little girl's large gray eyes. Not about promises made and kept.

Not about death…_so much_ death.

He reached for the remote control, seeking distraction and a way to cement him into the current century.

He was asleep before he was able to press the 'power' button.

www

"He's awake?"

"He was, for a little bit."

"_Awake_ awake? Or just had his eyes open?" Sam winced as Joe removed the infusion catheter from his arm, then placed a small bandage over the hole.

"Awake," Joe said, smiling. "No surly punches, no smart-ass cracks."

"He ask about his car?"

Joe chuckled and nodded. "Right after he asked about you."

Sam smiled. "Good," he said. "He's getting back to normal."

"He's gonna need some time, Sam," Joe cautioned him. "You both are. That leg needs some down time. Just because it was through-and-through doesn't mean it didn't damage you pretty good. I'll help get you to the motel when Max gets back, but you can't just…head off into the sunset."

Sam reached for the crutches leaning against the wall near the lounge chair where he'd been resting. He didn't reply, knowing that it wouldn't matter anyway. Once they were outside of the clinic, it was up to them how quickly they moved on to the next hunt.

_Us…or Dad_.

He rose stiffly, situating the crutches under his arms and winced as he put a small amount of weight on his leg.

"I mean it, kid," Joe said, stepping in front of Sam. "You need to let that leg heal—and riding around in a muscle car is not the way to do it."

"I rode a horse like two minutes after—"

"I don't need to know that," Joe lifted his hand, stopping Sam's words. "That man shoulda been shot for letting you do that."

"He didn't have a choice, Joe," Sam said. "I keep telling you, people were going to die. He had to get us back to town."

"Whatever," Joe shook his head, holding up a hand in surrender. "I know the story. I just didn't know…y'know…the _whole_ story."

Sam shook his head. "He saved our lives, Joe. Both of us. Him and Father Ramirez."

"Yeah, I never knew about Ramirez," Joe said, shifting out of the way so that Sam could lumber toward the door. "He's not even in any of those books I told you about."

"Oh, right, where are they again?" Sam stopped, looking askance at Joe as the man leaned against the wall, eyes downcast in thought. "I want to take Dean there when he's better."

"Inside the town library—which is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it building—there's the Maera Historical Society. My Aunt Jane organized it."

"Thanks," Sam started to turn toward the door again, then a thought hit him. "Hey, Joe, did you tell Dean your name?"

Joe looked puzzled. "Sure. What'd you think I'd make him guess? Twenty questions?"

"No," Sam breathed out a small laugh, "nothing like that. I just…I wondered how reacted."

"To the name _Joe_?"

"You didn't tell him your last name?"

"McAdams? No," Joe shook his head. "I didn't…think about it."

Joe looked concerned, so Sam waved him off. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I'll handle it. We got a lot to talk about anyway."

"Max should be back in a couple of hours," Joe said as Sam opened the door. "We'll get you two settled at the motel. Where you _will_ rest up before you head out."

Sam lifted his chin in a non-answer and made his way around the corner to the room he'd been sharing with Dean since they arrived. He opened the door carefully, peering in at the shadowed beds. Dean lay slightly slumped to his side, the TV remote in his hand, sound asleep.

"Yeah," Sam smiled to himself. "Definitely getting back to normal."

www

"Don't pull at those," Joe called to him from the other room. "They need to stay in a few more days."

"I think I got the hang of stitches, Doc," Dean replied, rolling his eyes at his own reflection.

"Is he always this impossible?" He heard Joe ask Sam.

Dean lifted an eyebrow and glanced out through the open doorway, meeting his brother's eyes.

"Yep," Sam nodded, sharing a smile before shifting back up against the headboard of the bed, stretching his wounded leg out in front of him. Joe lifted Sam's leg carefully and slid a couple of pillows beneath it, taking the weight off of the thigh wound.

Dean saw Max standing off to the side of the room, a silent, lurking shadow, before he returned his focus to the mirror and his somewhat unpleasant reflection. He looked rough. Worse than rough. He looked beat up, worn out, and rode hard.

He hadn't shaved in about a week and a half and scruff had turned into a soft, light brown beard with some red tints glinting off of the overhead bulb. The cut along his hairline—courtesy of Ivers' ceiling thrust—sported eight stitches that ran down the length of his temple like ants. His eyes looked bruised and sunken, and his lips were chapped and peeling.

He glanced once more out at Sam as he heard Joe giving his brother instructions about medication and rest. Sam had evidently shaved at some point while they were at the clinic. The three-day-old scruff he'd been sporting when they were back at the saloon was gone, his eyes were clear, and his smile was relaxed.

Sighing, Dean reached down and turned on the hot water faucet. And then he laughed.

"Sam!"

"What?" Sam's reply was anxious.

Dean looked out through the doorway, turning the water off and on repeatedly. "Running. Water."

Sam grinned. "Showers," he replied.

"Power," Dean said, flicking on and off the bathroom light.

"TV," Sam countered, picking up the remote and turning on the television situated on the dresser across the room.

A car commercial came on; a shiny silver vehicle pulling impossible 180-degree turns in the middle of the desert, a familiar song playing in the background behind the announcer's deep voice.

"Metallica!" they shouted in unison.

Dean grinned at his brother, not even bothering to complain when Sam shut off the TV. The two other men in the room stared at them in confused wonder.

"I cannot freakin' _wait_ to get back behind the wheel of my car," Dean said with a downward glance, his grin hidden in the growth of beard.

"No driving," Joe stressed. "Not for a couple more days. You had a serious head injury, Dean. You don't want to make it—"

"Easy, man," Dean held up a hand. "I'm not gonna do anything stupid."

"You mean anything _else_ stupid."

Dean frowned. "I haven't done anything stupid," he protested. "Yet."

"You mean…aside from getting caught in a spell that sent you back in time," Joe pointed out.

"Hey, now, that wasn't—"

"Or how about getting on the wrong side of a demon?"

"We didn't _know_ that he was a demon until later," Dean snapped. "And who pissed in your Wheaties this morning anyway, Doc?"

"I'm just saying…be careful," Joe relented.

"Holy hell," Dean shook his head, rubbing the back of his stiff neck. "He remind you of anyone, Sam?"

"Kinda, yeah," Sam said. "His Great-Great-Grandfather."

"Huh?" Dean leaned against the bathroom doorway and looked from Sam to Joe in confusion.

"Meet Joe McAdams," Sam said. "Great-Great-Grandson of Zeke McAdams."

"No shit!" Dean exclaimed, looking in shock at Joe.

"None," Sam shook his head.

Dean moved away from the bathroom doorway and perched carefully on the edge of Sam's double bed. He wasn't quite ready to be standing that long, but he didn't want to jostle Sam's wounded leg.

"How'd you know that?" Dean asked is brother.

"Well," Sam looked at Joe. "First clue was the name. McAdams? With family in Maera _and_ in Boston? It couldn't be a coincidence."

Joe picked up the story. "Have to admit, it was a shock having some random kid asking about one of my ancestors. Knew his name and everything. I've seen—and heard—some crazy things after meeting Max, but that rattled me a bit. Then today, Max filled in some blanks about Jake's research…and it kinda came together."

"Blanks? Such as…," Dean looked over at Max who until this point had done nothing more than drive them to the motel, help them inside and then stand quietly brooding off to the side of the room.

"Leo…should have told you," Max rumbled, his eyes on the floor, his face gray with grief. "Hell, he shoulda told _me_. Jake had pulled together a shitload of information on this town…long before we ever got here. Long before Sean…." He swallowed.

Dean shifted a bit, his body protesting its awkward position. Without a word, Sam slid over, giving way to more of the foot of the bed. Dean settled, leaning against the pillow Sam shoved against his lower back. They did this without discussion, without acknowledgement. It was simply a natural care of brothers whose lives depended upon the other.

Max watched this, then took a breath, his shoulders settling as if he'd decided something.

"It started a few years back," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, his chin lowered, his voice seemingly emanating directly from his gut. "We heard this…rumor about a weapon…a weapon that could kill anything—even a demon. We'd heard rumors about other things over the years—knives, guns, spells…. Never really took it to heart. Jake talked about it a bunch, though. 'Specially to Leo. Guess we shoulda taken it more seriously."

"Sean died during an exorcism gone to shit. It was…well, it was horrible. Losing his kid broke something in Jake. He wasn't the same," Max shook his head. "I'd seen that man survive so much. But this…."

Dean listened patiently, though in truth he was tired. Of listening, of learning, of being patient. Of sitting up. He wanted a beer. He wanted sex. He wanted music. He wanted to talk to his dad. He wanted peace.

He wanted to forget what they'd been through, put it away as if it had never happened. Even if the scars would remain. Even if they'd never let him go.

_He'll always have them…He'll hurt them forever._

The memory of Bird's voice and her plaintive words was so potent that for a moment he almost looked for her slim, strong frame standing in this modern room with him. Rubbing his face tiredly, Dean leaned his elbow on his knee and set his chin in his hand, waiting for the inevitable necessity of more.

"When we first got wind of this weapon, we called a few hunters we knew. Most of them shrugged it off. Except your dad," Max looked up at the brothers. "He said he'd heard something about it and wanted to follow up on some leads. Was gonna meet us in Denver at one point, make a plan. But then something happened and he never showed. Leo called him and he said to forget it. Said it was a hoax. Leo said he sounded real messed up."

"When was this?" Dean asked.

"'Bout…four years ago, I think."

Dean swallowed, looking over his shoulder at Sam. "Four years ago," he repeated.

Sam looked stricken. "When I left for Stanford."

"Leo took him at his word, but…I guess Jake never did. Just kept…collecting intel. Real quiet about it, too. I never knew…not until this whole…ritual thing." Max paused, ran a hand across his thick, white mustache, then turned to the door of the motel room. He opened it, letting dusty fresh air roll in, and leaned against the doorframe. "When I was…cleaning Jake up," he continued, clearing his throat, "to take him back to where we buried Sean, I found his journal."

"What did it say?" Sam asked.

"He had…timelines and genealogies. He'd traced our families back several hundreds of years. There were other names I didn't recognize—people Jake apparently thought were important to his search. He had Joe's family, too. I'd been the one to introduce him to Joe, so it was…well, it was weird to see him in there."

Dean frowned, not really liking where Max was going with this story. It ran too closely to Ramirez's argument that their being in Sulfur Springs was no accident, and echoed Sam's _everything happens for a reason_.

"And how does this fill in the blanks again?" Dean asked.

"I met Max at my grandfather's funeral, about eight years ago," Joe said. "Turns out, Max and Jake saved his life once upon a time."

Max lifted a shoulder. "It was a simple salt and burn," he rumbled. "Nothing life-saving about it. But…Samuel was a good friend."

"Your grandpa's name was Samuel?" Sam asked.

Joe nodded. "Named after _his_ father. There are a lot of Joe's and Samuel's in my family."

Dean lifted an eyebrow at his brother. "Guess you made an impression."

"It's a common enough name," Sam shrugged, but Dean saw the pleased grin hiding in the corners of his mouth.

"Anyway, Max introduced me to Jake, took me out for a beer, and I…," Joe sighed, "got drunk and told them the family legend about how my Great-Great-Grandpa was a Civil War hero who helped his town stop this psycho from killing everyone. I…may have…embellished the story a bit, but they realized that Grandpa Sam wasn't the first in our family to have a supernatural experience."

"So…Jake hears this story about Joe's Civil War hero and…, what?" Dean pressed.

"And nothing," Max shook his head. "He never really even saw Joe again, never mentioned him. His journal was full of these arbitrary conclusions about weird omens and he'd made notes about people who _might _have something to do with the weapon. Hunters, historians, antique dealers…. He'd traced the weapon from when it supposedly was created to when it disappeared and then he found this…random story. It was in the record of a Bible from a Spanish Mission—written _in_ Spanish—of a great evil that had plagued this little Texas town and said that the evil was destroyed."

Max glanced once at Joe, then back at Dean. "Same little Texas town that Joe's ancestor had help save from the psycho. Jake…well, from what I could tell, he latched on to that connection and…well, you know what happened from there better than anyone."

"So, Ramirez was right," Dean said, rubbing his face. "Jake knew about Ivers…he knew the whole time."

Joe and Max exchanged confused glances, but Dean ignored them and looked over at his brother. Sam looked at tired as he felt.

"Were we _supposed_ to be there, man?" He half-turned to face Sam.

Sam shook his head helplessly. "I don't know, Dean. I just…I don't know."

"Did we change anything? Around here? In our time?" Dean continued, his left leg bent and tucked under his right, his elbow on his knee. He turned his hand in a helpless _give me something I can work with_ gesture.

"The town is still Maera…Max is here…the Mission was still abandoned…," Sam shrugged. "I don't know what to think."

Dean swallowed hard, feeling sick. "Jake gave the Colt to Zeke," he remembered. "He…he said that he figured if anyone could protect it—"

"It'd be him," Sam nodded. He looked over at Joe. "And he knew who you were," he said.

"What do you mean?" Joe frowned.

"He had genealogies, you said," Dean looked at Max's back, willing the man to turn around. Max stayed where he was, staring out through the opened door. "He had Joe's history back a hundred years."

"Yeah, but it wasn't…everything," Max said. "Mainly dates, if there was a son or daughter born…. It was vague, but…well, as far as _my_ history is concerned, it was right."

"Do you think he knew who Zeke was before he got there?" Dean asked his brother.

Sam paused, thinking. "I'm guessing he knew _of _him," he offered. "I mean, if he traced Joe back to the town, he might've known there was a Zeke McAdams who lived there. But…as for who our friend was in relation to his journal…."

"But…he _gave the gun_ to Zeke," Dean pointed out. "He traced Joe back to this random story in a Spanish Bible and then ended up giving the one thing he'd been after to the only man he knew might be connected to our time."

"You're thinking Joe has it." Sam looked at the doctor.

"Has what?" Joe frowned, pulling away from the brother's prying eyes. "What are you two talking about?"

"You got a gun collection, Joe? Maybe a box with an antique Colt tucked away inside?" Dean asked, hearing the tired edge on his voice.

"No guns." Joe held up his hand. "Not even a shot gun. I spend too much time putting people back together after they mess with those things."

"How about anyone in your family?" Sam asked.

Joe opened and closed his mouth, caught by a thought. "Well, I _can_ tell you with about a hundred percent certainty that nobody back in Boston does. As far as our family here…I only really know my Aunt Jane. And I honestly couldn't tell you what that woman does or doesn't have. We all kinda…grew apart over the years. I don't even really know anyone else."

"We need to see that journal," Sam said, looking over at Max. "Check out the names Jake listed there."

Max shook his head. "I buried it."

"You _what_?" Dean exclaimed sitting forward.

"I buried it. With Jake."

"What the _hell_ did you do that for?" Dean almost bellowed, wincing as his own volume reverberated in his fragile skull.

At that, Max turned slightly, fixing a flinty stare on Dean out of the corner of his eyes. "Because he was my friend. My brother. The only family I had left. And this was his story."

"So why not keep it with you, then? Learn from it?"

Max turned away from Sam's question. "Because his story caused too much pain. And I needed to end it."

"Son of a bitch," Dean rubbed his face.

"What about your family legend?" Sam asked, looking at the doctor. "It say anything about a special gun?"

Joe lifted a shoulder. "Nothing like that. I mean, you can go look in the archives I told you about—the Historical Society. If there was a gun of note, it would be in there somewhere, I'd think."

"Forget it, Sam. It's buried." Dean shook his head helplessly. "Just like Jake and his damn journal."

"Why did you bury him anyway?" Sam asked Max.

Joe looked troubled. "What?"

"He means, why not burn him," Dean clarified. "It's just something…if you want to be sure you don't return as a vengeful spirit…." Dean shrugged.

"When Leo, Jake and I were in the war," Max said, his voice barely audible, "we were ordered to destroy a village. Burn it all. Everything. Every…every_body_."

The other three men in the room held very still.

"We made a promise to each other that no matter what, we'd be buried. _No matter what_," Max repeated softly.

Sam looked over at Dean, his face pale and tight.

Dean shook his head once. _Don't tell him. Don't say anything._

Sam swallowed and looked down. The tense pain in Max's shoulders seemed to echo through the motel room. Dean heard the rhythmic tick of the clock on the stand between the two beds. He heard the crunch of asphalt beneath tires of a passing car. He heard the _swoosh-thrum_ of his own heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," Max said finally.

Dean watched the man.

"I'm sorry we didn't fix this. I'm sorry we let it get so far out of control. I'm sorry you got caught up in it." He bowed his head, his next words a quiet scream of sadness. "I'm sorry my friends are dead."

Dean felt a chill squeeze through him. He thought of how many people he knew—really _knew_ in his life. Not people he'd bounced against or helped or hustled. But those whose names he knew, whose faces he could picture, whose lives he'd do just about anything to keep safe.

He could count them on one hand.

The thought of losing them—_any_ of them—and being the last man standing was chilling.

"I'm gonna go," Max said suddenly.

"Where?" Sam asked, his voice hushed.

Max lifted his head and looked off to the West from the door of the hotel. "Somewhere that's not Texas."

With those words, Max stepped from the room. They could hear the creak of his truck door, the deep-throated rumble of the engine, and then he was gone. For a moment, no one moved. Dean sat slouched to his side on the foot of Sam's bed. Sam lay propped up against the headboard, his wounded leg stretched out before him. And Joe stood just to the inside of the opened motel room door, staring out with a stricken look on his face.

"Not exactly what you signed up for, huh, Doc?" Dean asked quietly.

"I've never seen him…in so much pain," Joe replied haltingly. "Not that I couldn't fix, anyway."

Dean didn't say anything. He had nothing left to say. He still didn't understand what it had all been for—all the pain, all the death, all the near-misses of the last several days. He didn't know if he _wanted_ to understand.

And over it all, one thought hung heavy in his mind. _What am I going to tell Dad?_

"You did what you could," Sam offered Joe, ever-constant in his attempt to comfort.

Joe took a breath, then let his eyes roam the room, resting finally on the brothers. "Are you two going to be okay?"

"We'll be fine," Dean replied automatically.

"I could extend my stay," Joe offered. "My Aunt Jane would—"

"We got it, Doc," Dean interrupted. "We're good."

"I gave Sam some pain meds," Joe said. "With instructions. I meant what I said. Rest, build your strength. And no driving until you can walk without dizziness." This last he said with a finger pointing directly at Dean.

Dean tipped two fingers to his forehead in a salute. Sam nodded.

"Well," Joe sighed. "It's been…interesting."

"Thanks for taking care of us, Joe," Sam said.

Joe half-smiled. "Just keeping up a family tradition."

Sam returned his smile, but Dean looked down, unable to shake the feeling that he'd lost something with this return home. He'd lost people he could have added to his list.

Joe waved to them and closed the door behind him. With the door shut, the room felt darker.

The brothers didn't speak. After a moment, Dean rose stiffly and moved toward the bathroom door. Joe was right about being dizzy when he walked. He felt like he'd had one-too-many the night before and had to focus on reaching his destination in more-or-less of a straight line. Closing the door, he pulled off the gray T-shirt and jeans Max had brought to the clinic for him to wear to the motel.

He stood in his boxers in front of the sink, turning on the water as hot as he could stand. He watched the steam rise until it clouded the mirror above. Reaching up, Dean wiped the mirror with his forearm, regarding his rough, haggard expression.

_This demon is a scary son of a bitch. I don't want you caught in a crossfire. I don't want you hurt._

He closed his eyes, shaking his head once as his father's voice came to him with startling clarity.

_After everything, after all the time we spent lookin' for you…please. I gotta be a part of this fight. _

Sam's plea slipped in between the cracks of sound in his head. Looking back at his own eyes, Dean took a breath.

_It don't matter what you want...It matters what you're gonna do. _

"What do I do _now_?" Dean whispered, thinking of Bird's large, trusting eyes, her unwavering belief that he'd find a way to make this right for her.

"Shave," came a voice from the doorway.

Dean looked over, startled. He hadn't heard the door open. "Dude. It's called personal space."

"Shave, Dean," Sam repeated. "Take a shower. Get something to eat."

"And then what?" Dean asked his brother, taking in Sam's tense stance as his brother held himself carefully against the doorframe.

Sam shrugged. "We'll figure it out."

"What, no plan?" Dean arched an eyebrow.

Sam gripped the doorknob and grinned at him. "I'm making it up as I go."

When Sam closed the door behind him, Dean felt his mind switch off. He moved as if on autopilot, trimming the longer parts of his beard, lathering up his face, pulled the razor down the skin of his cheek and along his jaw, ridding his face of the evidence that he'd been living hard the last couple of weeks.

Once his face was again his own, he shucked his boxers, turned on the shower, and stepped in. The water spilling magically from the overhead faucet onto his head, then flowing like silk down his neck and across his shoulders was nothing short of Heaven. He simply stood for a moment, tilting his wounded face away from the direct impact with the water and letting the heated liquid chase away the aches and gooseflesh.

Glancing down, he saw the pink tracks of still-healing skin where the Daeva had marked him. It was no longer tender to the touch, but he wondered if it would ever truly disappear. In the span of just a few months, he'd now felt himself dying twice. His whole life was a give and take between life and death. Kill one thing so another can survive.

And he'd been so close…so close to….

He was on his knees before he realized it, water splattering against his back and running in triple rivers on either side of his face and from his chin. He leaned forward on his forearms, folding himself and letting his forehead touch the water pooling on the floor of the bathtub. He knew he needed to get a grip, to stop shaking, to leave this room and be ready to take on the next thing and the next and the next.

But he couldn't get Bird's gray eyes out of his head, and he could still hear the rattle of Jake's last breath, and he could still feel the vise-like grip of Ivers' hand on his throat, and he could still smell the burning flesh of his brother's leg.

It was an impossibility that could not have happened to them.

And yet it did.

And people had died.

And he was going to have to find a place to put this. Somewhere inside of him where it wouldn't matter anymore. Where he wouldn't have to think about it every day.

The water began to cool and Dean pushed himself slowly to his knees, then finally to his feet. He used the bar of soap on the tray and washed his entire body, carefully avoiding the stitches and bruises, before rinsing off and stepping out. It wasn't until he was standing naked in the steam-filled bathroom that he realized the only towel available to him was a small hand towel draped over the edge of the sink.

"Fabulous," he complained.

Drying off as best he could, he pulled on his discarded clothes, the gray T-shirt sticking to the planes of his belly and chest with the excess water, and exited the bathroom ready to tear into Sam, despite the fact that it had been so long since they'd first arrived in town and checked into this motel room he couldn't remember who had used up the last of the towels.

It took him two angry strides into the room to realize that Sam was asleep. He stopped, mouth agape, and stared at his lanky brother, sprawled across the bed, wounded leg propped up on pillows, snoring softly through parted lips.

Sighing, the pointless anger sliding out of him, Dean approached the bed. He grabbed the blankets and tugged gently, covering Sam to the shoulders. Sam frowned slightly in his sleep, huffed a bit and turned, his wounded leg stopping him. Dean tensed, watching, but Sam settled once more. He straightened, his eyes on Sam, thinking about what his brother had been through in the last several days, how he'd fought through it, how he'd survived.

It was a strength Dean had always known was inside his brother, something he admired and was, in a way, envious of. Dean fought because he knew no other way. Sam fought because he knew this wasn't all there was.

"I'll be right back," he whispered to his sleeping brother.

He moved to his duffel bag. In the dim light of the room, he found his cell phone, the battery dead. Digging deeper, he located the charger and his keys. The only phone charger they currently owned pulled power from the cigarette lighter inside the Impala, not from a wall socket. With a glance back at Sam, he left the room and stepped in the lazy light of the Texas afternoon.

The Impala sighed as he sank into her seat, pulling the door closed behind him. For a moment, he simply sat in the quiet of his car, filling his senses with her familiar smell, the feel of her leather seats, the grip of her steering wheel. He turned the key one notch until the battery lit the radio and powered up the lighter. Plugging in the phone, Dean scrolled down his list of numbers until he found the one he wanted.

_Dad_.

Clearing his throat, he dragged his hand down his face, pinching his lip, then hit send. For the first time in recent memory, he hoped for voicemail.

"_Yeah."_

"Dad?"

"_Dean? That you?"_

"Yeah, uh…yeah, Dad. It's me."

"_Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to reach you for—"_

"Dad, uh, your friend…your friend Leo is…."

The silence on the other end of the phone told Dean that John already knew what he was going to say. He rolled his lips against his teeth, not finding the words inside him to continue.

"_How?"_ John's voice felt empty with that word.

"It's…a long story."

"_Is your brother okay?"_

"He's gonna be fine. He, uh…," Dean hesitated. "He got hurt, but, Max knew a guy that was able to help us."

"_How about you?"_

Dean was ashamed to feel the burn of tears at the back of his throat choking off a quick reply.

"_Dean?"_ John voice grew softer, gentling with the name. _"Hey. C'mon, kid. You're scaring me."_

"It was a tough hunt, Dad."

Dean knew his father could hear the tears in his voice and he pressed his lips tight to try to keep them at bay.

"_But you're okay?"_

Dean tried to say 'yes.' He tried to simply nod. But all he could do was clench his teeth in frustration with himself as a tear escaped his lashes and trailed down his cheek.

"_Dean."_

He moved the receiver away from his mouth and cleared his throat, finding his control. "I'll be fine, Dad," he said, his voice once again steady.

"_Why didn't you call me?"_

"There wasn't time," Dean lied, roughly wiping the traitorous tear from his cheek with the palm of his hand. "We didn't realize we were in over our heads until—"

"_Until you were already there,"_ John finished.

"Yeah."

They were both quiet a moment.

"_Jake and Max take care of Leo?"_

Dean swallowed. "Jake's dead, too."

"_What the hell?"_ John's exclamation was more surprised shock than anger, but Dean flinched just the same. It was a lot of information for his father to take in—and he hadn't even scratched the surface.

"Dad, the reason Leo called you was…he wanted you to help him stop Jake from doing something…crazy."

He braced himself for John's next question, expecting to be primed for details on exactly what level of crazy they'd been dealing with.

"_And you weren't able to stop him?"_

Dean shook his head, his, "No," barely a whisper.

John was quiet for a moment. Dean felt the chasm of opportunity open wide for him, heard the cue in the silence to offer details.

"_You tried, kid,"_ John told him, finally. _"Sometimes…sometimes a man'll get something in his head and…and nothing short of death is gonna keep him from doing it."_

Dean huffed out a laugh he knew his father couldn't hear.

"_When that happens…you got two choices,"_ John continued. _"Hang on for the ride, or get the hell out of the way."_

"Guess it depends on who that man is to you, which one of those you choose, huh?" Dean said softly, his voice slightly choked with emotion.

"_Yeah, I guess so,"_ John conceded.

Dean chewed on his bottom lip. It would be so easy right now to tell his father what he knew of the weapon Jake had been after. The weapon he guessed John was looking for now. It would be so easy to tell him how he'd seen the demon fall in a hail of bullets only to rise again. It would be so easy to tell him how he saw one bullet slam into that same demon, how it lit the figure up from the inside out, how he'd seen a demon die.

It would be so easy and yet…the words stuck in the back of his throat.

They snagged on the telling of how he'd nearly died from the Daeva cuts his father hadn't ever known about—hadn't stopped long enough to check on. They snagged on the telling of how he and Sam had been physically torn apart by time, falling and crashing through history until they were rendered helpless and hopeless and bleeding.

He wanted to tell him about Bird and Zeke and the Ghost, about racing the rushing water of a destroyed dam and of holding Sam so tightly while his leg was cauterized he almost felt his brother's skin meld with his own.

He wanted to tell him all of it. But he didn't say a word.

"_Where are you headed next?"_

"We, uh…we're gonna stay put for a bit. Gotta heal up some."

"_We?"_

"Banged my head pretty good," Dean confessed. "Nothing I can't handle."

"_Good. You take care of each other,"_ John said, and the cadence of those words echoed the last Dean had heard from his father before they'd left Gary for Maera. He allowed himself a smile and the luxury of thought that he'd been included in his father's standard missive.

"We will. You staying safe?"

"_I'm good, Dean. Got a lot going on here."_

It crossed Dean's mind to ask his dad where 'here' was, but he knew in his gut that if John had wanted him to know, he would have already said.

"Are we…y'know, gonna see you again anytime soon?"

"_Yeah, kid,"_ John said, and Dean heard the grin in his father's voice. _"I'll find you."_

"Okay," Dean swallowed. "You be careful, Dad."

"_You, too,"_ John said, and Dean heard a click.

He hadn't asked for more details about Jake and Leo, Dean realized. He hadn't demanded to know what had happened, how they'd died, why the hunt had been rough. He hadn't asked about any of it.

Frowning, Dean tried to remember if he'd heard any ambient noise around his father to indicate where he might've been, what he might've been doing, but it had been quiet. It was almost as if he'd caught his father in a rare moment of peace that John didn't want to disturb.

And, to be fair, Dean himself had been the one to argue that these three hunters who summarily changed the course of Dean and Sam's lives weren't really _friends_ of John's. They simply shared a rare commonality of being soldiers and hunters, and in John's eyes, that bonded them. Perhaps it was simply enough for John to know that they were gone, that this life had claimed theirs.

Turning the engine off and unplugging the phone, Dean stepped carefully out of the car, knowing he was fooling himself. John would look into the deaths. He would look into this hunt. He'd find out the truth sooner or later.

Dean set his jaw. _He can come ask me about it himself._

John wasn't the only one who could operate on a need to know basis.

Using that as his backbone, Dean returned to the motel room, glanced at his sleeping brother, pulled off his jeans, crawled between the sheets, and slept the dreamless, thought-free sleep of a pretender.

www

The first time Dean left it was to bring back food.

Though the diner was within walking distance, it took Sam too long to hobble on crutches and after several days of clear liquids, Dean was beyond starving. Sam wasn't able to stifle his laugh when his brother returned with four take-out dinners, a six-pack of beer, and one whole peach pie.

They passed the day eating, drinking and watching TV. Dean had entirely too much fun at Sam's expense when they stumbled across a rerun of _Bonanza_. Both were content to watch a marathon of _CSI_, but then turned the stations when the movie _Gettysburg_ started. Sam saw the ghost of his grief reflected in his brother's expression when they thought of Zeke.

The man hadn't died—not with them present in any case—but they'd lost him just the same.

The next time Dean left it was in a fit of restlessness in the sleepy hours of the evening. He was gone an hour when he called Sam to say he'd made a friend, infusing into that word a meaning unique to Dean. Sam didn't expect him back the rest of the night and was surprised when just over an hour later, Dean returned, eyes cloudy, face tight.

"What? She wasn't your type?" Sam asked, shifting stiffly in the bed as he tried to adjust his position to accommodate his still-healing wound.

Dean tossed him a look and shrugged out of his leather jacket. Sam had noticed he'd taken to wearing it all the time lately. He also noticed that he no longer removed the gold amulet he'd given his brother when they were kids as he used to do when sleeping or showering. It never left his neck now.

"You weren't _her_ type?" Sam prodded.

"It wasn't about _type_," Dean grumbled.

"What was it about then?"

Dean sat heavily on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. "You know…the only thing that stayed in one piece in that crazy ride were these damn things," he said, completely avoiding a direct answer.

Sam frowned. They'd spent two days in the motel room together, resting, healing up, and hadn't once brought up their trip to the past.

"And your lighter," he pointed out.

"Right. My lighter." Dean lay back carefully. "We've been here too long."

"You think you can drive without getting dizzy?"

"Dude," Dean groaned, closing his eyes. "I can't even get laid without getting dizzy."

Sam glanced away. "Sorry, man."

"Don't be too sorry," Dean muttered. "I closed the deal. I just did it like a teenager after his first shot of whiskey."

"I didn't need to know that," Sam grumbled.

"'S okay. She'll get over me. Eventually."

They sat in silence for a moment, the flickering light of the TV dancing shadows across their features.

"I called Dad," Dean said suddenly, not opening his eyes.

"I figured," Sam replied.

"I didn't tell him."

"Figured that, too," Sam said softly.

It was one of two explanations Sam had come up with for his brother's increased restlessness and inability to sleep.

"Not sure what _to_ tell him," Dean confessed.

"Maybe nothing," Sam said. "Maybe…maybe this one is just ours."

"Don't want to share your toys, Sammy?"

Sam was quiet for a moment. "You know when Dad called us that time? From Sacramento?"

"Yeah…," Dean answered, his voice betraying his wariness at the direction Sam's words could be headed.

"He didn't trust us to help. Didn't tell us where he was. Just…told us it was a demon and that he was gonna take care of it and then sent us on another hunt."

"He was trying to protect us, Sam," Dean replied.

Sam swallowed. "And then in Chicago…I mean it was like…." He stopped, searching for the words. "I almost wish we hadn't seen him. Kinda made everything that much worse, y'know?"

Dean didn't reply, and Sam rolled on.

"You may have been the one to tell him to leave, but he was ready to go. He didn't even know about those cuts on your side. It's the second time since you came to Stanford to get me that you've almost died, and he had no idea."

"If we hadn't been back in _True Grit_, I wouldn't have almost died."

"Not the point," Sam shook his head. "He had his agenda. And it didn't include us. So I just think…this one is ours."

"I don't know," Dean rolled his head to look at Sam. "I know this lead of his…whatever he's working on to kill this demon…I know it's that gun. I _know_ it, Sam."

"So?" Sam replied petulantly.

"So," Dean bit out. "We _saw_ the damn thing, man. We could help him find it. Have something…_legitimate_ to help get the demon that killed Mom. And Jess."

"Dean," Sam turned off the TV, dipping the room into darkness. "Do you even hear what you're saying? This is our fight—this whole thing. Not just Dad's, no matter what he says. We shouldn't have to have some…some _token_ to bring him that lets us go after it with him."

"It's always gonna be like this, isn't it? You fighting Dad. Even when the man's not here."

"Listen," Sam relented slightly. "I'm just saying…we don't know where that gun is or even if it still exists. We saw it a hundred and thirty years ago—_one_ time. For all we know it got buried with Zeke and no one's ever going to see it again. Is _that_ what you want to tell Dad?"

Dean sighed heavily. "I feel like I saw the answers to a test I'm not even taking."

Sam rubbed absently at his leg. The scabbed-over skin had begun to itch, indicating it was healing quickly. The ache from the damaged muscle had waned to a once-in-awhile twinge. He knew that if Dean were able, they could leave tomorrow. And he was ready to go. He wanted to get back to what they knew, back to what had brought them together again. Plus, too much inactivity made Dean restless.

And a restless Dean was a dangerous Dean.

"I have an idea," he said into the darkness, light from the parking lot silhouetting his brother on the opposite bed.

"This can't be good."

"Bite me, Jerk."

"Bitch."

"You want to hear this or not?"

"Lay it on me," Dean said with a suitably dramatic sigh.

"I say tomorrow we go to the historical society thing that Joe told us about, see what we see."

"You mean, look up everybody?" Dean asked, hope flicking the edges of his words.

"Yeah, I mean…I don't know about you, but I kinda feel like—"

"We lost someone," Dean said softly.

"Yeah, exactly. So, let's go find out what happened to everybody…then we can leave the next day."

"And go where?"

Sam shrugged. "I saw a report online earlier. Might be our kind of thing."

"Okay." He heard Dean exhale in the dark. "I like this plan."

When Dean left the next day, Sam was with him—free of crutches but limping. The walk from the little motel to the town library wasn't far and Sam found himself purposefully stretching his stride to out-distance Dean's bow-legged gait just so that he could work loose muscle grown stiff from inactivity.

He almost missed the familiar smell of manure, grass, and equine sweat until Dean smacked him lightly on the shoulder and nodded to an open field stretching out behind the small library where three horses—a bay and two Paints—meandered munching greedily on grass. He glanced sideways at his brother and caught the mischievous glint in Dean's eyes.

"Don't even go there, man," Sam said, reaching for the door of the library.

"What?" Dean asked innocently, following behind. "One last ride? For old time's sake?"

Sam glared at him, shaking his head. "Never. Again."

They met up with Jane McAdams in the library and she happily led them to the closet-sized room where she'd filed and catalogued the history of Maera, Texas, back as far as 1845, when Texas first became a state.

"I'm gonna choke to death on dust," Dean complained.

"Let's haul this out to the main table out there," Sam suggested.

"I'll haul, you sit," Dean instructed.

Sam frowned at him. "I'm okay to haul, Dean."

"You're gimping along like a three-legged dog. You want to leave tomorrow? Go sit. And prop that leg up."

Sam raised an eyebrow and held up two fingers in front of Dean's face. "How many fingers do you see?"

Dean flipped him off. "How many do _you_ see?"

"Fine," Sam huffed. "But if your head starts hurting, we take a break."

"Fine," Dean replied, loading his arms with books and files.

He deposited his load noisily on the table and looked around apologetically. Jane didn't even look up from her perch at the main table.

"There's no one else here," Dean observed.

"It's a library in Maera, Texas," Sam pointed out. "I'm surprised they have books."

At that, Jane did glance up and Sam saw her disapproving frown.

"Sorry," he muttered, then pulled a book close to him. "Check this out. _The Story of Maera_."

Dean sat and tipped his chair back on its rear legs, waiting.

"It goes back to when the town was called Henry Creek," Sam reported excitedly. "The town was founded by—"

"Let me guess," Dean said, eyes closed. "Some guy named Henry?"

"Nathan Henry," Sam nodded. "Guess he was the sheriff and established the town in 1866, after he got out of the Army. He was killed in 1868 in a botched arrest. Town was renamed Sulfur Springs by the new sheriff."

"Dawson," Dean remembered. "Who was one of Ivers' men. Think Ivers killed this Henry dude?"

"Doesn't say," Sam continued skimming the pages of the book. "Kinda hard to follow for a bit—the type is all scrunched together and there aren't any breaks in the paragraphs."

"Skip down to 1870," Dean suggested.

"Huh," Sam muttered.

"What?" Dean dropped his chair back on all-fours and leaned forward. "Good 'huh' or bad 'huh'?"

"It skips over 1870. Goes from this report about a…well, it's about Tom O'Maera, actually. When he built that dam on the river that ran through both his and Ivers' property. Next thing is a new sheriff being elected—huh, _elected_, that's interesting—in 1871."

"Say who it is?"

"No one we knew," Sam said. "Someone named Finch. First initial 'B.'"

Dean rubbed his face. "So it didn't matter," he said. "None of it. Just about the whole town watched a," he dropped his voice, "a _demon_ get killed right in front of them and went right on about their business."

"They didn't know he was a demon, Dean," Sam pointed out.

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Right, 'cause any old bad guy can get shot a dozen times and then get up and drag someone across the room using the Force."

"Well, okay, yeah, that was weird, but," Sam flipped a page in the dusty book, "Ramirez had a point about not assuming that the bad stuff inside a person is actual _evil_."

Dean looked away, not answering.

"I mean…what if I said…Joe is an angel," Sam continued.

Dean arched an eyebrow at him, a smile playing around his lips. "Something you want to get off your chest there, Sammy?"

"Shut up and listen a second. He's a good guy, right? Decent guy?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

"So, what if I told you that he was really an angel?"

"Whatever, dude. He's just a guy."

"Exactly. Just a good guy. So, why isn't it possible to believe that these people just saw a bad guy, not a monster from their Bible stories?"

Dean sighed, leaning back. "Still doesn't explain how they just…ignored what they saw. But…I kinda see your point."

"People can explain away anything," Sam said, scanning the page in front of him and speaking distractedly. "It's just easier for us to see it 'cause we know it's out th—holy shit!"

Dean sat forward. "What?"

"Wanna know when Sulfur Springs changed its name to Maera?"

Dean lifted his eyebrows, waiting.

"1887. Wanna know why?"

"Dude, you're like _this close_ to getting your gimpy ass kicked."

"They named it after their first _mayor_. A woman named Hannah O'Maera."

Dean's mouth fell open. "Bird?"

Sam nodded, grinning. "Says here she was instrumental in peace talks between the town and a local Comanche tribe. Through use of Indian sign, she was able to work out trade deals and commerce and even created the first community garden where they grew medicinal herb remedies used by the local doctor and tribal healers."

"Son of a bitch," Dean said softly, drawing the words out in a whisper of wonder.

"How about that? If you hadn't fallen practically in her lap…she might not have ever left that barn and…I mean, she could've been killed when Ivers raided the Mission."

Dean frowned. "We don't know that, though. I mean, the town was called Maera _before_ we were there."

"There's all kindsa reasons a town gets its name, though. I mean, it could have been named after Rory. The kid might've been the one to take out Ivers in the original history for all we know."

Dean rubbed his face. "We don't really know what we did or didn't change, do we? I mean, we didn't know what happened to anyone in the first place, so how do we know if we made a difference?"

Sam sat back, tilting his head at his brother. "Which way do you want it to be?"

Dean brought his eyes in focus on Sam. "What do you mean?"

Chewing his bottom lip, Sam peered at him, his forehead creased in thought. "I mean, do you want all this," he pointed to the opened book, "to have happened _because_ we were there…or in spite of it?"

Dean frowned, looking down.

"I know you said you wanted it to matter, Dean." Sam shook his head, his eyes directed to the words of the town's history but seeing instead the sardonic grin of a doctor-turned-saloon owner and the generous curves of his brothel sweetheart. "And maybe it does, but not in the way you think."

"What are you saying, Sammy?" Dean asked, not lifting his head, his voice husky with thought.

"Maybe Ivers was always killed by Jake. Maybe we were supposed to be there. Maybe if we'd done research before we left we'd've read about ourselves. I don't know. But I do know that before I landed on his back step, Zeke McAdams was a drunk who couldn't get over the war. And I know that after we left…after he'd had to be a doctor again…he changed his life enough to hook up with someone and have a kid and eventually…there was Joe."

Dean's lips tipped up in a half-hearted smile.

"And I know that it's possible Rory and Kate got free from Ivers some other way. And that Bird could've been saved by anyone," Sam continued, ducking his head to catch Dean's eyes. "But I also know that _this_ Bird," he pointed to the book, "that grew up to become mayor and have a town named after her…I know she's the same little girl who thanked _you_ for saving her mom and who about ripped her arms out of their sockets trying to keep you away from Ivers."

"She had a pretty tight grip," Dean acknowledged.

"So, maybe us being there didn't…turn Maera into a metropolis or open people's eyes to the fact that monsters are real. Maybe people died that would have lived or lived that would've died. I don't know," Sam shrugged. "But we never _meant_ to go back there. And…well, we did the best we could, man."

They sat for a moment, files and books around them, more evidence, more stories, more history of the town they'd shed blood in over a hundred years before.

"I'm gonna…walk around for a while," Dean said suddenly. "Think you can get back on your own?"

Sam looked at him, worry pulling his brows close. "You okay?"

Dean pushed to his feet and tossed Sam an _I'm always all right_ grin. "Just need some air. Dusty in here."

"Okay," Sam said, hesitantly. "Got your phone?"

"Jesus, Sam, I'm not five."

"Just checking," Sam raised his hands in surrender and watched Dean walk away, pushing through the wooden doors of the library and heading in the opposite direction of the motel.

Sighing, Sam closed the history book and stared at the other documents and books spread out before him, unsure how far he really wanted to go.

www

It took Dean a moment to realize why the Mission felt closer to town: there were more buildings.

In Sulfur Springs, the town ended about a mile shy of the Mission. But in Maera, the mercantile and grocery store, hardware store and diner, two-screen cinema and mom-and-pop coffee shops all stretched along the asphalt-covered road until he was left with only about a couple hundred yards of dusty path beaten into the crab grass to walk until he reached the front door of the run-down Mission.

The barn was still there, Dean noticed, just as it had been when he'd first parked the Impala next to it, but it looked as if something—a fire, he recalled—had taken a large bite out of it. The door to the Mission was open, the latch broken from where he'd kicked it in that fateful night.

Dead candles were scattered across the make-shift altar and at various points around the empty room. Cobwebs hung from the rafters and between the broken pews, blowing languidly in the weak breeze from the open door. Dean made his way to the front of the chapel area. Someone—Max, presumably—had removed the items from the altar that Jake had gathered for the ritual.

Staring down at the floor Dean thought about waking up in the rectory, seeing his brother and the priest who'd saved him. He remembered distinctly how empty he'd felt. How weak. Sam's book—at least the one he'd read from—hadn't mentioned Ramirez, or the Mission. But this building had played a pivotal role in all of this. It had become their last line of defense. Their salvation.

_I wonder if Jake knew that when he picked this place for his ritual._

"I don't know where Max buried you," Dean said, the sound of his own voice startling in the echoing quiet of the building. "I, uh…I wanted to say…I'm sorry, I guess. I wish we could've…made some kinda difference. Figured out a way to help you that wasn't…all this."

He sniffed, looking over his shoulder self-consciously. It wouldn't surprise him at this point if Jake's ghost suddenly appeared. Another quick glance around assured him he was alone.

"I'd like to think I'd never do what you did," Dean continued, clearing his throat around his confession. "But the truth is…we're not that different." He swallowed, his heart trembling as he pushed out his next words. "If I lost Sammy or Dad, I…," he paused, then took a breath, "well, I guess I can see why you took it this far. Not saying I like it. I mean, you kinda turned my world sideways, man. But…I get it."

He lifted his eyes, looking around the crumbling interior. One day he might tell his dad about the weapon. One day he might tell his dad about everything.

But Sam was right: for now, it was enough that it was just theirs. They'd lived through it. They'd made it out on the other side.

"I hope you find Sean," Dean said softly, then turned and walked out of the Mission and back toward the motel.

www

Sam heard the music before he reached the motel parking lot. The opening chords of AC/DCs _Hells Bells_ were distinguishable from almost a block away.

He was grinning by the time he'd limped into the lot, the setting sun catching on the Impala's raised hood and opened trunk, Dean buried waist deep in her engine humming along with Brian Johnson. Sam approached the car from the rear, noticing that the false bottom was in place inside the trunk, hiding their weapons cache from any wandering eyes. On top of the extra towels and discarded flannel shirts, Dean's inherited holster was resting, belt wrapped around the main rigging, black leather gleaming in the waning light.

"I didn't know you kept this," Sam said.

Dean jerked and cursed. Sam winced hoping his brother hadn't cracked his still-healing skull on the underside of the hood. Emerging from the engine, Dean wiped his hands on a shop towel and made his way around to the trunk with a scowl.

"Sorry," Sam offered.

"'S okay," Dean sighed. "Shoulda been paying more attention. Not like you should be able to sneak up on a guy limping like that."

"Hey, I'm getting better," Sam protested. "Besides, you're the one who can't walk in a straight line."

"It's the damndest thing," Dean replied. "On my way back here from the Mission—"

"Is that where you went?"

Dean nodded. "On my way back…things just got clear. No more fuzzy lines." He waved his fingers in the air to illustrate.

"It's the hand of God," Sam smirked.

"Whatever," Dean shrugged. "What's that?" He pointed to the bag in Sam's hand.

"Got something for you," Sam said, his mouth working around a smile.

Dean looked genuinely surprised for a moment, but Sam saw the sardonic mask slip quickly back in place. "Aw, Sammy. You like me. You _really_ like me."

"Ease up," Sam chuckled. "It's for you, but…kinda for me, too. What are you doing?"

"You're not gonna give it to me?"

"In a second, jeeze, you're like a kid at Christmas," Sam made his way past Dean toward the front of the car. "She okay?" He gestured to the opened hood.

"Yeah, she's aces," Dean nodded, tucking the shop rag back into the rear pocket of his jeans. "Just figured, y'know, now that I can see straight, I should get her tuned up and ready to roll out tomorrow."

_Hells' Bells_ ended and Sam heard the cassette click to the other side.

"_From this day on I own my father's gun…."_

Sam frowned at his brother. "What's that? Elton John?"

"Dude, check this out," Dean opened the driver's side door, the music's volume increasing. He turned the dial to soften the noise and not scream over it. "I found this in the trunk when I was looking for a place to put the holster."

"It's your box of tapes," Sam said as Dean slid behind the wheel. He leaned on the opened door, shifting his weight to his good leg and the bag he'd been carrying from one hand to the other.

"Not that, _this_," Dean lifted the empty cassette case from the box and handed it to Sam. "It's Mom's handwriting."

"How do you know?" Sam asked in wonder, staring at the song list writing in neat, tight letters down the front of the cardboard insert.

"Saw a letter from her to Dad once. He had it tucked in the journal and I…uh, borrowed it. Long time ago."

Sam arched an eyebrow. "You stole a love letter from Mom to Dad?"

"Yeah. I did." Dean stared back at him, challenging. "I gave it back," he amended.

Sam looked back at the cassette. "_A Mix of Us_," he read. "She made him a mix tape," he laughed.

"Yeah, in '82, see?"

"AC/DC, Doors, Sex Pistols, Beatles, Pink Floyd, Elton John, Rolling Stones…oh, my God is that Pat Benatar?"

Dean held up his hands and rolled his eyes as if to say, _women_.

"This was inside it," he said, handing Sam a business card. On the front was the name Guenther's Garage and a Lawrence, KS, phone number. On the back, Mary had written, _Before there was anything else, there was us._

Sam smiled. "Mom was a romantic," he said softly. Elton John's distinctive voice filled the void as he regarded his mother's list of music.

"_As soon as this is over we'll go home to plant the seeds of justice in our bones, to watch the children growing and see the women sewing. There'll be laughter when the bells of freedom ring…."_

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean's eyes were on the steering wheel, his gaze a hundred years away.

"You think this will ever…y'know, be over?"

"This?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "This…fight."

Dean looked at him askance. "You mean so you can leave?"

Sam didn't reply.

"You know what I think, Sam," Dean said softly. "This fight…I mean, it's bigger than us. Always has been. And now we know that first hand." He ran his blunt, calloused fingers along the ridges of the steeling wheel in an absent-minded caress. "It's been going on forever. It's never going to be over."

_You and me. We're all that's left. So, if we're gonna see this through, we're gonna do it together._

Sam swallowed hard, his own words echoing in his head.

_Wait until it's really over before you leave... _

It was such a simple request. All Dean wanted was for him to wait. He didn't ask him not to go. He didn't ask him to live this life forever. He just asked him to wait until this fight was well and truly done.

Sam sighed softly. He couldn't leave Dean now…not now when they'd seen so much, survived so much, and when there were so many questions still to be answered. And there was something…breakable inside his brother. Something he'd not seen before; not while they were growing up on the road, not when he walked away for college, not even when he almost lost Dean to the volts used to take out the Rawhead. In the hours before they'd found Ramirez, Sam knew he had been as close to feeling his brother die as he ever wanted to get.

And it shook him to his core. Dean was simply always supposed to _be there_. It was starting to resonate with him why it mattered so much to Dean that Sam stick around.

"You ever gonna show me what's in the bag?" Dean asked as Elton John gave way to The Rolling Stones.

"You're a good brother, Dean," Sam said suddenly.

Dean jerked his head to the side, unable to slide the mask in place this time. "Huh?"

"I just mean…you're more than a hunter. A lot more."

Dean frowned. "I think you spent too much time with those dusty old books."

Sam didn't back away, didn't back down. He wanted his brother to hear this.

"I'll keep my promise," Sam continued. "I won't leave until it's over."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "And what if I'm right? What if it's never over?"

"_Wild horses couldn't drag me away. Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away…"_

"Then I guess we'll be spending a lot of time together," Sam said with a half grin.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. Live a life hunting evil and get a pain-in-the-ass as a reward."

Sam's grin widened. "You say that now," he took a step back from the car door and reached into the bag he'd been holding. "But you'll sing a different tune the next time I save that ass."

"I always have a plan, Sam," Dean protested good-naturedly.

"Uh-huh," Sam intoned. "Here."

Dean took the clear bottle from him. "I don't get it."

Sam handed him a hand-written label with an adhesive back. On it he'd written _Holy Water_. Dean took the label and started to laugh. Sam handed him a bottle of antiseptic. Dean's laugh rivaled the volume of the radio, which had slipped from The Stones to Pink Floyd.

"_So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain…."_

"Figured…better safe than sorry," Sam explained smiling as he watched his brother wipe tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Yeah," Dean gasped. "Wouldn't want to…y'know…mix up the Nair and shampoo."

"Why you even _had_ Nair, I don't want to know," Sam shook his head, taking the clear bottle back and turning toward the motel room door. "I'll get us packed. You finish up here."

"Hey," Dean called.

Sam paused and turned. "Yeah?"

"Where are we going?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Not too far. Richardson. Some haunted house thing."

"Nice," Dean grinned, climbing out of the Impala and muffling the music a bit as he closed the door.

Sam started for the motel room once more.

"Hey," Dean called again.

"_What_?" Sam sighed, turning to face his brother, irritation clear in his expression.

"Thanks, Sam," Dean said sincerely.

Sam glanced down, then back up again, his smile genuine. "Sure."

"Maybe we can stop by a church on the way to this haunted house of yours. Stock up," Dean said, pointing at the soon-to-be-labeled Holy Water bottle.

"Whatever you want," Sam replied. "So long as we _drive_ there. I'm never getting on a horse again as long as I live."

"Never say never, Sammy," Dean grinned, turning his attention back to the Impala's engine.

Watching his brother lean head-first into the greasy heart of the machine, Sam heard the muted musings of Roger Waters from his mother's mix tape.

"_Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?"_

Sam turned toward the motel room, his smile soft and sad as he felt the weight of those words.

* * *

**a/n: **Thank you so much for riding through this with me, for reading, for taking time to comment, and for getting from this story what I put into it: a moment of escape and some entertainment. It's such a pleasure to write these characters and I hope you have had fun on this journey.

I'm posting the Epilogue at the same time as this chapter. I hope it brings things full-circle for you.

**Playlist:**

_Hells Bells, _AC/DC

_My Father's Gun_, Elton John

_Wild Horses_, Rolling Stones

_Wish You Were Here, _Pink Floyd (in honor of the story name)


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"_Other things may change us, but we start and end with family__._"

_~Anthony Brandt_

_Salvation, Iowa 2005_

He stood quiet and still in front of the display case inside of _Benjamin's Antiques and Weaponry_.

He knew exactly what he was looking for, even though he had yet to actually hold the weapon. He'd known about it long before they'd found the nest of vampires. He'd seen it in action long before John shot Luther to save Sam.

"Can I help you, son?"

A wizened man with narrow, black-rimmed glasses emerged from behind a thick, green curtain. Dean could smell coffee and bread and something a little too sweet to be appetizing wafting its way from the back room.

"Just looking," Dean replied, his voice cracking slightly.

"You interested in an antique weapon?"

"Maybe," Dean replied, moving away from the display case and turning toward the shelves of books and ammunition.

"Well, if I can show you anything, you just let me know," the man informed him.

"Will do," Dean said without looking.

His head was too full, the memories too loud.

_Back in 1835…Samuel Colt made a special gun. He made it for a hunter; a man like us, only on horseback…. This hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him…._

Dean had listened to his father's words. He hadn't known that it had been made especially for a hunter. Jake had never told them; Max hadn't revealed the information, and anything else was lost to the grave. He knew he could have spoken up then, in that moment where he and his brother sat quietly listening to the almost hypnotic sound of their father's gruff voice. He could have said he'd seen the weapon, seen it in action. He knew how it had been used at least once.

But he said nothing. Neither did Sam. They both let John tell them about this Colt, about his friend Daniel Elkins, and let the past—and their trip back to it—stay a secret.

He didn't know why; they hadn't even discussed _why_ when they were momentarily apart from John preparing for this crazy plan.

"You think this Elkins guy knew about Zeke?" Sam had asked.

"Who knows, Sam?" He'd replied. "For all we know, Zeke was buried with the gun."

"So how'd Elkins get it?" Sam had pressed. "And when?"

"What makes you think I got any more answers than you do?" Dean had snapped. "We let it go, remember? We could've looked into what happened to it after we left, and we didn't."

"Only 'cause _we're_ not obsessed," Sam had muttered just as John returned to the room where they were packing their duffel bags, halting further speculative talk.

Now, the fact that he'd not told his father about the weapon was pointless. They had the weapon. Finding it wasn't the problem.

Using it was.

Dean heard the old man shuffling around behind the display cases and moved quietly to another glass case of weapons, his eyes scanning the makes, the workings of the weapons inside. It had to be _just right_. If he was going to let his father go up against Meg, it could only be with the perfect ringer.

_Look... I don't expect to make it out of this fight in one piece. Your mother's death…it almost killed me. I can't watch my children die, too. I won't. _

_What happens if you die? Dad, what happens if you die and we could have done somethin' about it? You know, I think maybe Sammy's right about this one. I think we should do this together. We're stronger as a family, Dad. We just are. You know it._

Dean rubbed his face, wanting more than anything to turn on his heel, leave this store, grab his dad and his brother and drive. Just drive. Away from Salvation, away from Monica and her baby, away from Lincoln and Meg and their dead friends.

Just…_away_.

He wanted to forget that he'd known about this weapon. He wanted to forget that people had died to protect it.

People his dad knew. People _he _knew. Pastor Jim, Caleb…they had been friends, _family_. He'd found refuge with Pastor Jim, had recovered from nightmares and pain more times than he could remember inside the safety of that man's shelter.

He'd gotten blind drunk for the first time with Caleb. Had watched the wiry hunter take out a den of werewolves by himself one time when Dean had been too sick to help. He'd trusted that man with Sam's life.

Now they were gone.

Because some demon was after the damn Colt.

And they had it. They had it _and_ the remaining bullets. He didn't know how Elkins had gotten it, where or when the old hunter had found it, but he'd had it, as John said, _all this time_. And now it was in their possession, this gun that could kill anything. This gun Dean had seen kill a demon.

And John was putting it in _his hands_. His and Sam's. It would be up to them to face down this demon—alone, without their father, without their unified strength—while John tried to pull a fast one on the bitch busy wreaking havoc on what little was left of their family.

Swallowing, Dean turned to another shelf and his eyes fell on a Colt—a Navy revolver. A shiver went through him. He reached out and slid the protective glass to the side, grasping the Colt and lifting it from the case.

"You like that one, do you?"

"Know anything about it?" Dean asked the old man, turning the gun one way then another, hefting it and sliding the cylinder free to check the load. It was almost as if he recognized the weight of it, the way the grip melded into the curve of his hand.

"Well, let me see," he reached for a large index card that was tied with coarse string to the hammer, peering down the bridge of his nose at the typed information. "Looks like the dealer that rents this particular booth bought it at auction from an estate sale in Texas just a few months ago."

"Where in Texas?" Dean asked, mouth dry.

"Austin," the old man replied. "From the estate of a…Jane McAdams. It was purchased along with several other pieces."

Dean felt his heart thud heavily as he once more regarded the gun in his hand. The grip was some kind of dark material, not ivory as he half expected it to be. The barrel was scuffed and worn. The gun looked ancient.

_It is ancient_, he realized, registering why he felt such a connection to the weapon. He may have only seen it a couple of months ago, but it hadn't been new since the Civil War.

"What other pieces?" Dean asked.

"Well, let's see," the old man replied. "Looks like several history books, some furniture, pieces of a Civil War-era doctor's kit, that type of thing. Seems most everything has been sold, though."

"I'm," Dean paused, clearing his throat. He seemed unable to let go of the gun. "I'm looking for a Colt built around 1835. Or as close to it as I can get."

"Well, that one there is a '68," the man told him. "In excellent condition for such a weapon. With a decent cleaning, it'll still fire. What do you need it for?"

_To save my father's life, _Dean nearly said, literally biting his tongue to keep from speaking aloud. "For, uh, a reenactment."

"Don't know that I have one much older than that if you need it to work. I can see if I can dig up some more information on it, if it would help you. Or call the dealer who is selling it."

Dean didn't know why he was stalling. He _knew_ this was Tom O'Maera's gun; the weapon he'd borrowed from the little girl who'd saved his life, the weapon he'd used to hold off the men trying to finish the job they started when they shot Sam. He _felt _it. In a sea of weapons, across a sea of years, it had found its way to Salvation, Iowa, to this antique shop. To the only place he'd been able to go in the time allowed him to find a stunt double of a weapon.

A stunt double for the weapon that had been the catalyst for Dean to have used this weapon in the first place. His head spun. There were too many coincidences tied up in this history, in this fold in time. Too many unanswered questions.

And right now, he had a job to do, and people waiting for him and he had to make a damn decision.

_Look, besides us and a couple vampires, no one's really seen the gun. No one knows what it looks like._

With his father's words backing him up, Dean looked at the old man. "Naw, that's okay. I'll take this one."

"Excellent choice," the man replied with a crooked, tooth-free grin.

Dean felt strangely hollow as he watched the old man ring up the gun, then wrap it in a piece of paper. He slid the weapon in the pocket of his leather jacket and returned to the Impala, the bell above the door in the antique store ringing an ominous farewell.

The trip to the agreed-upon meeting place felt as if it went too fast and took too long. He needed to get back to Sam, back to Dad, but he knew the minute he arrived, John would be leaving them. Again.

And when he did, there was a very good chance that this time, he wouldn't be back.

_You boys…you tell your Dad...You tell him…to hang on to you…. Nothing…nothing as strong as family._

The final words of a dying hunter were crawling around inside Dean's brain and he shook his head, willing silence to take control, quiet the voices, muffle the memories. He saw Sam and John standing outside of John's black truck in the middle of an open field, just beneath a highway overpass. He pulled to a stop, took a breath, and got out.

"Did you get it?" John asked.

For one moment, Dean considered lying. If he didn't have a fake Colt, John would have nothing to give Meg. He wouldn't be able to leave.

But then more of their friends would die.

Or they could take the actual Colt to Meg—together, all of them—but then Monica would die and another family would be sentenced to the same Hell Dean and Sam had lived their whole lives.

Pressing his lips together, Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper-wrapped weapon.

Words danced on the tip of his tongue; he could almost taste the confession. _It's a good gun, Dad. I've fired it before. A hundred years ago. It belonged to a hunter—a guy like us. _

He handed the package to John. "You know this is a trap, don't you? That's why Meg wants you to come alone."

"I can handle her," his Dad replied with familiar, frustrating confidence. It twisted Dean's heart. "I got a whole arsenal loaded: holy water, Mandaic amulets—"

"Dad..."

"What?" John's question was edged.

Dean saw it in his father's eyes: he knew what Dean wanted to say, what he couldn't say. He knew he was probably walking away from them for the last time. He saw it and it burned through him.

_It don't matter what you want…It matters what you're gonna do...Please…promise me…._

"Promise me something," Dean forced out, bringing his eyes up to meet John's.

"What's that?" John asked, cautiously.

Dean felt Sam standing close to him quiet, tense. He felt his brother's uncertainty, anger and hope. He felt his father's resolution, regret, and excitement. Above it all, he felt his own fear. In this moment, he was willing to do anything—_anything_—to get these two out of this fucked up situation.

"This thing goes south, just get the hell out. Don't get yourself killed, all right? You're no good to us dead."

John swallowed, his dark eyes seeming to take in his sons as if quietly embracing them. "Same goes for you," he said softly. Then he took a breath, shaking himself slightly. "All right, listen to me. " He pulled the real Colt from his pocket. Dean saw that he'd made the right choice: the guns were close enough. "They made the bullets special for this Colt. There's only four of 'em left. Without 'em, this gun is useless. You make _every _shot count."

Dean couldn't speak.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied, his voice sounding young in the vacuum of air that Dean suddenly felt pressing around them.

John looked down at the weapon in his hands, his voice turning soft, sad. "I've been waiting a long time for this fight. Now it's here, and I'm not gonna be in it." He looked up at them and Dean felt breathless by the look captured in John's eyes. He couldn't quite identify it. It almost…looked like…pride. "It's up to you boys now. It's your fight. You finish this. You finish what I started. You understand?"

Dean pressed his lips together, holding back any words of protest, of warning, of truth. He didn't want his father to see the emotion his mask of determination was barely keeping in check. He wanted to send him off to this fight with the faith that they would all come back together when it was done.

He _would_ see his father again.

His nod mirrored Sam's and he took the Colt from his dad and slipped it into the pocket of his coat.

Sam spoke up, his voice confident, encouraging. "We'll see you soon, Dad."

John smiled at them, both of them, and Dean felt cold. He was suddenly a child again, wanting to feel the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder—the recognizable weight of that one hand, resting there, reassuring in his solidarity, telling him without words that everything was going to be okay.

Because he wasn't so sure anymore.

"I'll see you later," John replied.

He looked at them one last time, and then as if looking any longer would change his mind, John turned, climbed into his truck, and drove away without a backward glance. Dean heard Sam sniff next to him, knew his brother was working to _not_ give in to tears.

"Later," Dean said softly to the fading taillights of the truck.

Before Sam could say anything to him, Dean turned away, heading to the trunk of the Impala, the weight of the Colt tipping his jacket crookedly on his body. He knew Sam needed to hear something reassuring, a cocky _we got this_ epithet of reassurance. But he wasn't sure he could muster the strength to speak those words.

_I should have said something…I should have told him a long time ago_.

"What good would it have done?" Sam asked quietly.

"How do you _do_ that?" Dean asked quietly, not looking at his brother.

"I was thinking the same thing," Sam confessed. "Neither of us said anything. Both of us could have."

"He wouldn't have believed us," Dean said, looking down. "And he would have been pissed."

"You're only saying that because of what he said about my visions," Sam said, opening the trunk and holding out his hand.

Dean pulled the Colt from his pocket and handed it to his brother. "And because it's true."

"He would've believed us," Sam argued. "Why would we make something like that up?"

"If you're so sure, how come _you_ didn't say anything?" Dean asked, half-turning to face his brother.

Sam swallowed. "'Cause," he shrugged, his eyes on the interior of the trunk. "By the time he found us again, he already basically knew where the Colt was. He would've gotten it with or without us." He looked up at Dean. "And all that stuff that happened in Texas? Happened to _us_. It was _ours_."

Dean looked away. He didn't know if he agreed with Sam's reasons; he didn't even really know what his own were. He felt certain he was going to regret keeping from his father the fact that they'd seen the Colt before.

But life doesn't allow for the nostalgic reparations that backward glances encourage.

"Dean?"

"Yeah." His voice was barely audible.

"We're gonna be okay," Sam asserted.

Dean looked at his brother, unable to reply, unable in the moment to agree. After a few heartbeats of time he turned away, heading to the driver's side of the Impala.

"C'mon," he said. "We've got a mom to stalk and a baby to save."

_And a demon to kill_, he promised himself. _Because one way or another, you bastard, we are ending you._

The deep rumble of the Impala punctuated his vow.

* * *

**a/n: **There you go! I hope you've enjoyed. I have treasured each and every one of your reviews.

I keep telling myself that I'm going to stop writing fanfic at some point and focus on my original stories, but then I get a new SPN-infused idea and it becomes an _after this one_ promise to myself. I suppose I just enjoy this escape too much. I know one day ya'll are going to get tired of me, but I do enjoy your comments almost as much as I enjoy telling the story.

So, for now, you'll be seeing more of me. Even if it's just a one-shot here or there (oh, and a planned co-write with a lovely writer, **LovinJackson**).

Slainte!


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